Free Moranthology by Caitlin Moran

sister, without a single gag across three films? I think if you thought about it a little while longer, you’d realize that you’d far rather be a Ghostbuster: a nerd in New York with an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on your back, and a one-in-four chance of being Bill Murray.
    I urge the world to greatly accelerate their acknowledgment of Ghostbusters ’s true canonical placing—for, in this period of uncertainty, terrible things are happening. Last week, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the film was marked by a celebrity party, attended by, in descending order of fame: Dizzee Rascal, Nikki Grahame from Big Brother 7, DJ Ironik, Dave Berry and Rick Edwards. I know. I’m not trying to be rude but, really, if you’re at that level of fame and someone invites you to a party in honor of something you love, the most effective way to show you care is to stay away.
    For the rest of us—the ones who have realized the Great Truth about the Greatest Movie Ever Made—the serious campaigning must start now . Let’s go show this prehistoric bitch how we do things downtown.

 
    And then, a couple of months later, I interviewed Keith Richards. At the time I was going insane writing How to Be a Woman , and working seven-day weeks for months on end—but couldn’t let pass the opportunity to meet the man who, more than any other on Earth, could claim to be rock’ n’ roll on two, very thin, legs. I mean, really thin legs. It’s like two bits of string covered in denim.
    This was another time I was attempting to give up smoking, but was derailed by someone legendary offering a fag. The next time I tried to give it up, it was when Benedict Cumberbatch, dressed as Sherlock, offered me a Marlie outside 221b Baker Street. WHO WOULD EVER SAY NO TO THESE CIGARETTES?
    K EITH— N ODDY H OLDER S AYS Y OU W EAR A W IG
    I meet Keith Richards on International Talk Like a Pirate Day. It feels only right to inform him of this.
    â€œInternational Talk Like a Pirate Day?” Keith says, with his wolfy grin, wholly amused. “ARRRGHH! ARRRHHH! Oh, I can’t do it with without the eyepatch,” he sighs, mock-petulantly. “I can’t speak like a pirate without an eyepatch. Or being pissed—HARGH! HARGH!”
    But of course, he can: to be frank, everything Keith Richards says is in the cadence of Pirate. With his black eyes, bandana and earring, even at sixty-seven, he has the air of a rakish gentleman forced to steal a frigate and abscond from polite society—due to some regrettable misunderstanding about a virgin daughter, a treasure map and a now-smoldering Admiralty building. You can see why he was the inspiration for Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. Richards apparently taught Depp how to walk around a corner, drunk: “You keep your back to the wall at all times.”
    Today, Richards is a pirate in onshore mode. The mood is tavernish. Even though we are in the Royal Suite of Claridge’s, which has a grand piano (“Shall I have a go? You can bootleg it—HARGH HARGH HARGH.”), and so many rooms we never even go in half of them, Richards still brings an air of a man who’s left his parrot, cutlass and Smee in the hallway—lest he need to make a quick getaway. On walking into the room he spots me, and does a double-take.
    â€œI had no idea I was going to talk to a lady,” he says, ordering a vodka and orange. “I need a drink when I do that.”
    Spotting a pack of Marlboros on the table, he eschews them, and brings out his own supplies.
    â€œThose are the ones that say they’ll kill you,” he says, pointing at the pack on the table, with their large “SMOKING KILLS” label. “They are English, and they would kill you; they’re bloody awful.”
    â€œAre they different from American ones?” I ask.
    â€œOh yes. You take them apart, if you’re going to roll a