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At some point during our 45 minutes together, I ask Ronnie Wood – the 71-year-old Rolling Stone who, if rumour and rock mythology and decades’ worth of paparazzi shots and multiple reports of addiction, one cocaine-ravaged septum (removed, then substituted with plastic), the accounts of raging exes and his own personal, if hazy, recollections of the past 50 years are to be believed, has pursued a lifestyle so hedonistic, it is the gold standard by which all celebrity excess is still measured – how he’s not dead.