It was always a huge help and a leveller when interviewing Alice Cooper to remember that his real name was Vincent Furnier. Always in character, with hefty black eye make-up dribbling down his face, mad Russell Brand hair and threateningly painted mouth, it never seemed so scary to be meeting a Vincent.

On this particular occasion in the early 70s, Alice was ensconced in the Portobello Hotel for the London leg of a British tour, most likely around the time of Welcome to my Nightmare. He'd had some good publicity when the censorious Mary Whitehouse, scourge of rude telly, condemned him as degenerate. Questions were asked in the House about banning him.

So Alice, lolling in his wickedly dark red hotel suite, was on a roll. We ordered hamburgers. It's sweet that Americans continue to believe they'll get the sort of hamburger they expect as their right in downtown Pittsburgh to be dished up in London, but they always do. It rarely was.

At about the same time as room service arrived, so did a roadie with food for Alice's stage prop. In a cage in the corner was a very large python and to get him into a sluggish pre-performance frame of mind, the roadie had just shopped at a pet shop in the Portobello Road for live mice.

We all ate our respective suppers, conducted a very civilised interview (Alice was bright, funny, helpful and not yet the drunk he was to become) and I went on my way. Next day, unfortunately, so did the python. Rumour has it he still slithers round the nooks and crannies of the Portobello Hotel.