"I was born Ian Fraser Kilmister on Christmas Eve, 1945, some five weeks premature, with beautiful golden hair which, to the delight of my quirky mother, fell out five days later. No fingernails, no eyebrows, and I was bright red. My earliest memory is shouting: at what and for what reason, I don't know. Probably a tantrum, or I may have been rehearsing. I was always an early starter.
My father was not pleased. I suppose you could say me and my father didn't hit it off - he left three months later. Perhaps it was the hair falling out; perhaps he thought I was already taking after him.
My father had been a padre in the RAF during the war, and my mother was a very pretty young librarian with no idea of the duplicity of the clergy - I mean, you teach people that the Messiah was the offspring of a vagabond's wife (who is a virgin) and a ghost? And this is a basis for a worldwide religion? I'm not so sure. I figured if Joseph believed that one, he deserved to sleep in stables!"
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"Talking of two two-faced bastards - my band, Motörhead, got nominated for a Grammy in 1991. The music industry doing us yet another favour, you know. So I got on the plane in Los Angeles - New York's a long walk. I had a pint of Jack Daniels in my pocket: I always find it helps with the sobering up. As we taxied elegantly out on to the sun-drenched tarmac, I took a sip and mused pleasantly on this and that.
A voice: 'Give me taht bottle!'
I looked up; a stewardess with concrete hair and a mouth like an asshole repeated herself, as history will - 'Give me that bottle!'
Well, I don't know what you might have done, honoured reader, but the fucking thing was bought and paid for. No chance. I volunteered this information. The reply: 'If you don't give me that bottle, I shall put you off the plane!'
This was becoming interesting; we were about fifth in the queue for take-off, were already late, and this bonehead bitch was going to take us out of the line for one pint of Jack Daniels?
'Fair enough,' I said. 'Put my ass off this fucking plane right now,' or words to that effect. And can you believe it, the stupid cretin did it! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! She made all those people late and miss their connections in New York, all for a pint of the amber pick-me-up ...So what? Fuck her! And the horse she rode in on! Come to think of it, perhaps she was the horse she rode in on! I got another flight an hour and a half later.
It was an inauspicious start to the festivities, and it carried on like it began. When we got to the fabled Radio City (Home of the Stars!), everyone was dressed in hired penguin tuxedos, trying to look as much as possible like the motherfuckers who were stealing their money! I don't wear tuxes - I don't think it's really me, you know? And I don't think the ushers liked the Iron Cross.
Anyway, having been nominated for a Grammy for our first album for Sony, I had foolishly entertained the idea that the company might be pleased. I don't think they even noticed! I have still, to this day, not been lucky enough to gaze, enthralled, upon the splendour that is Tommy Mottola - that night he was probably too busy chasing Mariah Carey around her dressing room. I'm not an overly ambitious man: 'Hello' or just 'Glad to have you aboard' or even 'Hey, dude' would have sufficed. Nothing. Nada. Fuck all. So I went to Sire's party. Better. Got laid.
So fuck 'em. And the horse they rode in on!"
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Lemmy Kilmister - 68 years of rock & roll and counting.
Happy birthday to the one and only God of Rock & Roll! :D
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