"If that's what chemo does for you, I'm going in for some." Later, when I sit in on the Stones' rehearsal session, it's clear that Richards' claims about the camp's high morale are valid. It's fascinating to watch the group in something like private, Keith perusing the set-list through dainty pince-nez while he and 58-year-old Ronnie Wood's gritty guitars spar to glorious effect. "Charlie's fine now and he came back firing on all cylinders, maybe to prove a point," says Richards of his 63-year-old colleague. On closer inspection the pooch is seen to be wearing a leopard-print scrunchy. By Richards' account, rehearsals are going well: is contemplating the 43-date August-January tour like contemplating Everest? "No, it's like downhill skiing! Nobody is dragging their ass to come on this one." Even Charlie Watts, traditionally the most touring-reticent Stone, can't wait to get going - and this despite the drummer's recent battle with throat cancer.
As the vodka kicks in and he starts to slur a little, he puts me in mind of Rowley Birkin, the genial, dipsomaniac QC from The Fast Show. "I went to see my dentist the other day," Richards says, still on the topic of his rude good health "Chipped tooth Hadn't seen him in 20 years. An amiable rogue who has been described as "a grinning baboon" and "the human riff", the guitarist proves surprisingly well spoken. First I hear him praising his own handiwork; then he starts rooting around with his dental tools. After a bit I hear, 'This guy's immune system is fucking unbelievable!' I chuckled to myself but I didn't say anything." Richards' dressing room is stationed within Greenwood College School.
It is here, incongruously, in a quiet suburb of Toronto, Canada, that the Rolling Stones are once again rehearsing for an upcoming US tour. Richards' manager, Jane Rose, is on site, as is her tiny white Maltese, Ruby Tuesday, so named by Keith himself. He thought he'd put me out on anaesthetic, but he hadn't - I was just sitting there feeling pleasant with my eyes closed. Though it's only 5.30pm, his skulls-and-guitars-appointed dressing room is candle-lit. The air is heavy with incense, and a small, coffin-shaped box on the table lies open to reveal Keith's rolling papers. He's wearing lime-green work boots, and a black tracksuit top with the word "Jamaica" emblazoned in yellow on the back. You take in his gnarly knuckled fingers, his swarthy, heavily latticed face.