I'm at the Four Seasons in Los Angeles at the end of an extraordinary West Coast golfing road trip. I've always wanted to stay here as it's a fairly legendary hotel.
For one thing it has a pool that overlooks LA that is the setting for the last scene of my favourite film, 'Spinal Tap'. More excitingly, it was where Led Zeppelin are supposed to have really cranked up the rock excess factor by throwing televisions out of the windows and doing peculiar things to young ladies with a red snapper.
Things have obviously calmed down a little bit. Yesterday I wandered through the bar and spotted a slightly portly Vince Neil – ex-lead singer of Mötley Crüe – impressive hellraisers themselves, in their time. Poor Vince was sitting next to a pneumatic blonde and talking to a young TV producer about his new reality show in which his parents move back in with him.... How times change. He looked a tad depressed in his bandana and tight leather trousers – he clearly needed to throw a TV out of a window.
I'd never met him before but I was feeling a little mischievous. I walked confidently up to his table and shook his hand, telling him that I hadn't seen him for ages and that we should hook up and get together for a meeting. He looked confused for a second, but soon clicked into schmooze mode and we agreed to get my people to call his people.
I moved on through the bar – it resembled the 'Star Wars' bar, full of people in various stages of plastic surgery. There was one woman who had undergone some extraordinary eye work and clearly found it very hard to blink. The fact that she now looked like a Medusa didn't seem to upset her. Personally I would have sued the surgeon, but what do I know?
Every Brit that I've met out here has a common trait – talking to you while covering their mouth with their hand. I couldn't understand it for a while but have now realised that they are all paranoid about the state or colour of their teeth. Everyone here has such unbelievably gleaming gnashers and they flash them about like rapiers. I've started to get really paranoid myself, and tend to mumble when talking to anyone as everyone stares at your mouth, trying to get a good look.
I've also become a bit too used to valet parking. I pulled up at a restaurant the other morning, and threw the keys to a very surprised man who happened to be outside the place at the time. I had already sat down to eat when he came in and handed them back to me indignantly. He turned out to be a writer, so I found a window in my schedule and booked him in for a meeting. We never discussed what it was going to be about but it doesn't matter. Maybe I'll get Vince Neil to come along?
Back in my hotel room I donned my personally monogrammed robe and slippers and flopped out on my personally monogrammed pillowcases. It was hard to see what Led Zeppelin were so angry about. I had a closer look at the TV and realised that the hotel management had now made it impossible to remove it from the wall, and that you'd need to be a qualified electrician to get the thing into a window-chucking position.
There's a knock at the door – it was my laundry returning in a wicker basket, wrapped in individual sheets of tissue paper and tied in a bow. This is how all laundry should be, and I take a photo to show Stacey when I get home.
I wander out on to my terrace and have a coffee – they have somehow managed to put my initials in the foam. I start to wonder why all of life is not like this and start to get angry.
Maybe I'm being disrespected by everyone back home. Why doesn't my local Starbucks provide the monogrammed latte service? I feel my blood starting to boil. I wander back inside to calm down but someone has sneaked in and left me a complimentary bottle of champagne. It's the final straw. I crack and grab the bottle viciously and run to the window. I twist the cork and watch it fly high above the city of angels before landing in the car park. Rock'n'roll ain't never going to die....