One writer who loved to hate the Stones was Richard Greene at the Record Mirror. Rock 'n' roll has its rules of conduct, same as La Cosa Nostra or the House of Commons. Richard Greene was clearly not a man of honour. If he didn't like their sound or records, fine; or their image and look, fine and understandable. There was much to dislike about the Stones: I had seen to it. Anyone's perception of how unkempt we were was fair game. But Keith Richards' complexion had nothing to do with it.

When Greene mouthed off for a third time about Keith, I threw down the paper in disgust and shouted for Reg to bring 'Bodacia's Chariot' around pronto. The Chevy made it to the Record Mirror's Shaftesbury Avenue office from Gloucester Place in twelve minutes, running a few lights, jumping a few kerbs, and just missing a few people.

Reg and I leapt out of the car, leaving it parked illegally half on the pavement, half on the street, ran up the office stairs four at a time and crashed into a previously quiet reception.

'What can I do for you . . . gentlemen?' asked a startled, bee-hived receptionist. I was already cutting through the door having seen Greene holding court down the hall in the entrance to his office.

The ever-polite Reg was allowing himself to be asked if he had an appointment.

'Does it look like we need one, dear?' Reg asked rhetorically in his best bemused-gangster mode.

'It's okay, Reg. He's down here, follow me,' I yelled, champing at my bit. The two of us charged into Richard Greene's office, power-driving him back into the wall. Reg kept his arm pressed into the scribe's Adam's apple, waiting for the word 'Kill.' I got my breath, pretended to relax, took the measure of the room and smiled laconically.

'Reg, get his fuckin' hands on the window ledge.' Reg did so, warning the now green at the gills Greene that if he moved his hands from the sill, Reg would throw him out of the window.

'What's all this about?' blustered the writer, his hands moved.

'Attack!' I screamed to Reg.

'Don't fucking move your hands!' commanded Reg.

He didn't. We'd already caused a commotion around the offices but nobody was brave enough to come in and find out what was going on. I was glad that Peter Jones was not in the vicinity; this would not do and he could definitely call the meeting to order. I moved towards Greene as Reg held his hands on the sill with one hand as the other held the window ready to bring it suddenly down at any sign of movement from the writer. It was time to bring on stage for the first time, save mirror appearances, my Burt Lancaster as J.J. Hunsecker in The Sweet Smell of Success. Oh, I loved it! I'd done Tony Curtis' Sydney Falco for so long I grabbed this new part and made it mine.