It had to happen sooner or later, in the next phase of the horrendous soviet #metoo movement — rock stars would be targeted.
Legacy rock bands like Led Zeppelin were pretty much untouchable, that is until the #metoo monster reared its ugly head from beneath the soiled sheets of rock star excess.
Some #metoo snivelling male shill has gone and written a book with unsubstantiated rock’n’roll rumours from over 50 years ago, that may or may not have happened — allegedly. We will not even mention this fungal wart lodged firmly in the arse crack of humanity because to do so might somehow promote their obscene puritan yellow stained book.
How far back do these #metoo lunatics want to go? How about the Spanish Inquisition or the pillaging Viking raids on the coasts of Britain 1000 years ago? What do these hysterical flapping women want from men and history. Yes, the history of men and women is indeed messy, but why dreg it up? This reverse witch hunt is truly ridiculous and completely useless.
Fucking rock star hotel rooms after a gig were smoke-filled Dionysian orgies, no one even saw a face or knew a name, the groupies would all fight over each other to fellate the band, or plonk their bottoms on some rock star’s straining phallus for the hundredth time that night. Amongst the farm yard animals, dead fish, Mars bars and lines of coke, televisions were thrown out of closed hotel windows, groupies were chained to plumbing pipes and some damn great rock songs were written, inspired by these exquisitely Bacchanalian tour jaunts that lasted for years at a time.
Do what thou wilt, and they did, including Ozzy sniffing ants, Motley Crue lining up girls like pinballs, Bowie being served up another willing participant amongst the thousands before, and Jimmy Page receiving exactly what he signed that contract with the horned one in the first place to bloody receive.
Groupies came thick and fast, from Cynthia Plastercaster who made plaster casts of rock star cocks as a form of art, including Jimi Hendrix. Groupies like Nancy Spungen, Bebe Buell, Pamela Des Barres and all the other girls fighting for the ultimate prize after every gig were the juice that rock’n’roll ran on, apart from the booze and drugs that is.