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3rd February 2002
Gareth's Cute But The Rest is Idol Gossip
Rumours of my obsession with Gareth from Pop Idol are slightly, and predictably, exaggerated. OK, so the stutter is cute, he can hold a tune and he has the looks and vulnerability to be a star. But obsessed? In love? Give me a break!
I can't say I have followed the programme, but having listened to the chat on the street it seems Gareth will win, pop still being the domain of pubescent girls, gay men and their mothers. The greatest quality of any performer is vulnerability and Gareth has it in buckets. Often the thing that makes life hell in the playground proves an asset later in life.
After Britney Spears's appearance on Frank Skinner's show, her young fans must be disillusioned. I tried to count the full sentences she uttered but it was impossible with the constant giggling. Her aspiration to be the next Madonna is down the pan.
Britney, you could argue, is a child and therefore should not be forced into debates with clever chaps like Skinner. Mind you, modern chat shows are all about the host, and Frank loves the sound of his own wit. Do we need further proof that the custom-built pop star is a wet duck, when it comes to telling us what they think and feel? And this is where sweet, stuttering Gareth might fall flat.
You can teach almost anyone with a half-decent voice to dance - I am the exception. I remember taking dancing lessons with a nice lady in the mid-Eighties and she could not get the groove into my awkward step. I dreamt of going to stage school as a kid, but now I'm grateful my parents were boracic.
SOMEONE who is never short of a word or two is notorious artist Tracey Emin, who I interviewed for my forthcoming UK Play chat show, One On One. I've known Tracey since she was 16 but I've never known her to be so calm and in control. In Nine Ki, that spooky Eastern astrology I follow, she is a 142 and has the same numbers as an ex-lover of mine, so I knew who I was talking to.
Being hung over didn't help, but Tracey had gone to bed early and contradicted everything we expect from her. Mind you, her opening sentence was typical: "Lovely house, good to see it didn't all go up your nose."
I was desperate to find out how much she got paid for those adverts she did for Vivienne Westwood, but she told me she did them out of respect for the great Westwood, whom she considers a maverick. It's nice to know that money is not her main motivation.
AFTER numerous late-night drinking sessions, I found myself outside the new Aveda store in Covent Garden. I was having a quick fag and daydreaming, when Nick Heyward of Haircut 100 passed by, looking like a respectable adult.
"Hello, great place to beg." He snipped. Lord, was I looking that rough? Thankfully, I am about to enter a "One" year in my Ki astrology, which is a year of introspection and Buddha-like tranquillity.
Only two more days till the Nine Ki year starts. It gives one an opportunity to stretch out those New Year resolutions, like stopping smoking and giving up the devil's brew. See you on the other side.
10th February 2002
Popularity contest is killing off rock 'n' roll
Can it be true that the winner of Pop Idol and all entrants were forced to sign a 20-year contract and agree to hand over 25 percent of gross earnings should they hit the big time? If this doesn't stink of "insider trading" then what does?
If you tried this on the stock exchange, you'd end up behind bars. Yesterday, I heard stuttering Gareth on Capital Radio chatting to Dr Fox about how he has been touring the country, politician-style, in a huge bus. If this doesn't prove rock 'n' roll has had its heart and soul ripped out, then I'm Fanny Cradock.
There has been much talk recently about the way the music industry is running itself into the ground and one has to wonder what future it has. Top American such as Courtney Love and Alanis Morrisette, who have made their fortunes the old fashioned way with true grit and talent, have been campaigning about the way record companies hold artists to immoral contracts which are rarely in the long-term interests of the artist.
A musical contract, unlike your average employment contract, is one you cannot walk away from. If you detest yoru job as a top executive or shelf filler, you can work your notice and leave. As a musician, one's contract is binding until you are no longer a viable commodity.
The other suspect aspect of Pop Idol is the fact that one of the judges, Simon Cowell, is involved at management level and has his own writing team churning out songs for the acts. One can't help feeling the whole thing is despicable. If I had the time, I would hire a flying squad to drop leaflets into school playgrounds, warning kids that they are being duped.
If Gareth or Will decide, in the future to turn to TV presenting, they will still have to hand over part of their earnings. Apparently, after a certain period, the cut will be reduced to 20 percent. How generous! I'll leave the final word to my fave rocker, David Bowie: "This ain't rock 'n' roll, this is genocide."
SINCE I wrote in this column that Jonathan King should not have been imprisoned for his dubious antics with underage boys, I have received heaps of angry letters from adults who were abused in similar fashion as children.
Anyone who thinks I am unsympatheic to their ordeal is mistaken. However, the recent case of female teacher Amy Gehring, who had been accused of doing the same thing, proves the point I made about King needing therapy rather than prison.
If Ms Gehring has been a male teacher indulging in sexual activity with boys, would she have walked free? I think not. It was never my intention to support the behaviour of King but, as I said, there cannot be one rule for heterosexuals and another for gays.
The boys involved in the Gehring case have allegedly agreed to sell their stories for a handsome sum and will probably be patted on the back by their schoolmates for indulging in what has been for centuries every schoolboy's fantasy. My crushes at school were always on male teachers but that's another story.
In Victorian times, in this so-called civilised society, girls were being married off at 14. OK, so morality changes - but anyone who fails to see the obvious hypocrisy must still be living in the Victorian era. Technically, under current law, a woman cannot be prosecuted for seducing underage boys. Even more amusing is the fact that our great Queen Victoria did not believe lesbianism existed. To quote James Brown: "This is a man's man's world." Or more accurately, a heterosexual man's or straight woman's world.
17th February 2002
A close encounter of the Posh kind
On Tuesday, I went to Heart FM to do more promotion for Taboo, and who should I bump into but Victoria (Posh) Beckham? Sadly, she was sans hubby, but I couldn't resist asking her for a signed snap for my niece Kelly - and, rather cheekily, one for myself. Well, over the past few years I have been quite cutting about her in this paper. My request for something really rude was denied, but she did write a very spunky message, which I cannot print in this classy paper. I promised to hang the signed picture in my toilet with Ivana Trump and others.
Reports in a fellow rag about my being embarrassed on meeting Britain's unofficial new royal diva were more than slightly exaggerated. Far from being embarrassed, I was impressed to learn that my autobiography Take It Like A Man was the only book that Posh had read cover to cover. I turned up in a builder's van, while Posh arrived in a flash Merc with stylist, PR and personal assistant. But she seemed quite a nice girl. I asked: "Where's ya man?" and she arched a brow and sauntered out with her entourage/ I guess it will be a while before I'm invited over for one of David's infamous pasta dishes. Watch this space.
I was very sad to hear about the passing of Princess Margaret, with whom I had a strange encounter in the Eighties. I was at some charity function at the Dorchester Hotel, and was part of a line-up to meet the Princess. I was next in line to Kim Wilde, and we were both wearing those big Eighties hairdos and trowels of make-up. As Princess Margaret shook our hands, she was heard to utter: "Who's that over made-up tart?" It was never clarified whether she was refering to Kim or moi, but the press jumped on my case and assumed she was commenting on me.
Some months later, I was having lunch with my chum Marilyn at the Brasserie Brompton Cross, and Viscount Linley, who was also munching, approached our table and said: "My mother never said you were a tart." He pointed out that his mother had many gay friends and would never say such a thing. There was real sincerity in his voice - and frankly, why would he bother coming over and risking an earful from a drag-queen commoner?
I told him that no grudge was borne - as far as I was concerned, it was just another bit of publicity, and to give his mother my regards. Those were the days when publicity was like oxygen, and being dissed by a royal was beyond camp. I always had an admiration for Princess Margaret because she knew how to enjoy herself and never apologised for it.
The Shadow Lounge, one of London's latest gay venues, is now known as "The Shallow Lounge" after one of there big bouncers turned me away last week. These clubs beg one to grace their premises, but once they get on their feet, it's attitude central. I had my eyebrows on, so there was no excuse for the threatening attitude of the big lug who was seconds away from punching me. Just then the manager appeared, but I was in no mood to enter a gay club with security that should be at a pub in south-east London.
So it was off to Heaven, a much friendlier haunt where they'd recognise me with a paper bag over my head. We had our Taboo Valentine's party there, and it really was a case of "the woodwork squeaks and out come the freaks". I had this huge Philip Treacy satellite dish on my head, and spent the entire evening bumping into doors and banging into ceilings. There was an 8ft drag queen version of Margaret Thatcher, and spooky doesn't even begin to paint the picture. Talk about reliving the nightmare!
24th February 2002
Brits? They're slick as Uncle Sam Now
Trying to obtain a ticket, actually two tickets, for this year's Brit Awards was rather like retrieving the sword from the stone. I had to tell a little white lie and claim that my friend, who hails from Islington, had flown in from the US. Oh well, God knows I'm good, as the old Bowie lyric goes, and somehow a seat was provided. Comments such as: "This never would have happened in the Eighties" were thrown around but we got in by the skin of our teeth.
Was it worth it? Well, the whole show has become more American than blueberry muffins and as slick as a toppled oil tanker. Frank Skinner, who hosted the event in the most avant-garde manner, has to be the funniest man on two legs, despite the Geri Halliwell-style Union Jack shirt and remarkably cruel comment to Sophie Ellis Bextor, which went: "When I met you I was tempted to say, why the wide face?" To her credit, looking hurt as one would, she held it together and there was no murder on the podium.
The highlight was seeing New York's coolest band, The Strokes, performing and the biggest joke was PJ Harvey not getting an award. When will this country realise that she is worth 10 million boy bands and their dreary speeches?
Best vocal moment came from Anastacia who sang with Jamiroquai and rocked the party that rocked the party. She makes Pop Idol seem, well - idle! Having been one of the original punks, I found that the performance by the UK's latest rap, gun-toting rebels. So Solid Crew, complete with gunshots that sounded like loud confetti bursts, was American in the worst wannabe ghetto fashion.
Kylie appeared on a huge oversized CD and mimed rather well to what has to be the biggest dance hit of the year and Dido, who is a real sweetie, trotted off with a bag of prizes.
At the BMG Records bash at Home House I got chatting to one of The Strokes which, being a sad old rocker, was a bit of a thrill. I'm looking forward to the new album. The Italian geezer from the group - forgot his name, forgive - was just "simpatico", as they say in Italy.
All this was going as I vainly attempted to cruise a very sexy Scottish chap, who wisely but boringly made a quick exit. I almost got dragged to Heaven nightclub but decided to jump a cab, pick up some wholemeal pita bread and hummus and go to bed. This never would have happened in the Eighties!
GETTING tickets to see top glitzy designer Julien Macdonald's fashion show is never a bind. I had the best seats in the house but my twisted sister Philip Sallon took so long spraying her hair blue we arrived after kick-off but saw most of what was a dazzling show.
Julian knows how to make a 7ft diva sparkle in all the right places. I met his parents and, try as hard as I could, just couldn't get Mum Macdonald to open her eyes in the shot. I did all the "keep 'em closed 'til I say cheese" but no luck.
Also in attendance was Skin, formerly of Skunk Anansie, who is just putting the finishing touches to her first solo album, and trendiest of DJs Smoking Jo, who just can't decide on a hairdo - but what a DJ.
Somehow I ended up at Bulgarian Embassy for a John McVicar book launch and bumped into John Blake, showbusiness editor of The Sun in the Eighties, looking rather too healthy for my liking. Someone said sarcastically: "You know Mr. Blake and you loathe him." It took me a few minutes to register his face but it did not conjure up any hatred at all. Hatred it's so Eighties!
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