LORD OF THE BIG MAC MANOR

“Will you look at this,” Mick Fleetwood groaned, pointing in the general direction of his new mushroom brown boots. It’s tough for the lanky drummer to be more precise—when you’re Fleetwood’s size, you need a telescope just to tie your shoes. He stretched his long, serpentine legs, idly eyeing his left boot the way an old far-sighted traffic cop would stare at a speeding ticket. One of Fleetwood’s stylish boots is dotted with a wavy grid of black blotches.

“They’re brand new boots, too,” he sighed. “I bought them at this posh little shop in Beverly Hills the other day. And no sooner had I worn them that I managed to destroy them. I was walking down some stairs and accidentally knocked over a can of motor oil which promptly spilled all over the shoes.”