November 2002

3rd November 2002

Fired up by poor view of heroes

LAST week, I read with horror a letter in another newspaper from a member of the public who had the audacity to say that fire engines are public property and that fire-fighters do not deserve a pay rise.

Well, anyone with half a brain knows that they are well deserving of the long overdue wage rise they are being forced to fight for. It takes a certain type of person to be willing to risk their lives for others. I am not brave enough for that kind of work but I am grateful, as I am sure most of the country is, that there are men and women who are.

The Queen hands out honours to pop stars, football managers and the like who entertain us or make us feel proud to be British but can we honestly feel proud to be British when we treat our modern gladiators with such disrespect? Fire-fighters, like doctors, nurses and the elderly, are treated like pond life. Why are those who actually do something to make the world a safer place treated with disdain and get less money than a supermodel who happened to be born with the right face?

At a time when the threat of terrorism looms large and none of us seems to be safe anywhere, you would think the government would see sense and give the fire-fighters their due. Let us not forget either the fire-fighters who died in the call of duty on September 11.

I am quite sure not one member of the fire service has the slightest desire to strike and cause death and mayhem but members of the government (the people's party) have just given themselves a huge pay rise and are guaranteed pensions that will keep them in luxury long after they are put out of office.

It is a terrible shame that we live in such a socially and politically sloth-like culture because if the British public were to march on Downing Street like the farmers did about their right to slaughter innocent creatures, the government might pull its finger out of its metaphorical dam.

Wake up Mr Blair, it's time you stopped acting like a confused Tory and more like the true socialist you promised to be. Fire-fighting is a sociallly and highly important service and you are pussyfooting around over an issue that has needed resolving for a long time.

The Green Goddesses are no match for the men and women who undergo the intensive training needed to save lives. It's a bit like asking yours truly to stand in goal at the next World Cup. Give them a rise and do it now or face losing major votes at the next election.

IT SEEMS trivial to moan about the relentless onslaught of "reality TV" but I am sick to the high teeth of it. Doesn't anyone write any more? More important, why are we paying a TV licence for shows that are made by the public for the public?

The level of cruelty and humiliation in these shows also reflects badly on our culture. I am most offended by stuff like Pop Idols, Popsicle Idol and Fame Academy. Are we to believe that having white teeth, a "cruise ship" voice and no idea how to dress is what makes a true music artist?

Oh yeah. A word to the London Evening Standard's critical twit Nicholas de Jong. I love Madness the band but how can he call Our House "a truly original musical" when it contains not one new song?

Our House would be greatly improved by having the real band in it. The theatrical interpretations of their hits do not touch the magic of the real thing.

Madness are a true British treasure and I kept hoping Suggs and Co would pop up and make the show as funny as their videos and their rugged genius.

10th November 2002

I'm taking Internet gossip on the chin

I DON'T get the Internet tripe that is known as "Popbitch" but friends are always ringing me to read out the latest piece of useless gossip they have printed about me. This week they wrote that I was painting my neck black to disguise my double chin.

Sorry? What chin? When Mother Nature was handing out that area of the anatomy, she decided to give me nice eyes and an aerodynamic nose but held back on the jawline and gave me my mother's thin hair. However, it is always wise to focus on what one does have, and having a pronounced jaw usually means you are horribly ambitious and ruthless.

At school I was called "carrot nose" and dreamt of having it reshaped - but then I also begged my mother to send me to drama school. Her reply was: "You're already dramatic enough" - and having six kids also made it impractical.

Back to the neck, though. In the New Romantic era I was painting my neck, face and ears every colour you could imagine. In fact, the night I met Helen Terry, who became Culture Club's backing singer and secret weapon, I was sporting a red neck and yellow face. Grace Jones, who was leaving the club, looked at me and said: "Who slit your throat?" My reply was: "It's a look."

When you've worn as much make-up as I have, you are always searching for new ways to apply it, and having portrayed Leigh Bowery in Taboo, I have been bitten by the drag bug.

Painting one's neck black draws attention to it and makes the chalk-white kabuki face stand out even more, adding to the drama. I've never understood why I have not been given a make-up campaign because I've done more for the industry than any other human being.

I ignore fashion trends. If Vogue tells us less make-up is the new black or suggests lip-gloss instead of lipstick, then I trowel it on. When I want your opinion, I'll let you know.

Strike a poser! Sadly, the information about my facial restructuring came from the wardrobe department at Stars In Their Eyes. They were just bitter because I brought my own make-up guy. Mind you, they kindly lent me a real-hair wig which finished off the look perfectly. Anyhow, if I'm ever feeling down about myself, I just think of Michael Jackson and the sun shines!

A FEW months ago, British Airways mangled my Louis Vuitton hatbox after a friend put it in the hold, and it could not deny it was at fault. Its staff were very courteous and promised in writing to refund the money. Usually they give you compensation based on the weight of your luggage, so unless you have a few bricks in your baggage, your Stella McCartney sheer frock or Jimmy Choo strapless mules will be worth the price of a kebab in Salford on a Saturday night.

BA is a good airline and the tragedy is that you end up screaming at the wrong people. This week, BA lost my huge, bright blue box of hats and I had to do my gig in Newcastle in a paper hat. There was a 45-minute flight delay and I had a throbbing toothache.

If one is late for a flight, airlines rarely hold planes for you but if they decide to cancel a flight, tough on the customer. There should be obligatory compensation for delays. Perhaps a point system that gives you air miles for the inconvenience. Better still a free massage, a manicure, organic coffee and the right ot run rampant through duty-free without paying.

Instead, you get a lame excuse, a soggy cheese sarnie and arrive late. I want my hats back now or there will be one hell of a commotion. Flying is a DJ's nightmare. I want my hats back and I want them in one piece!

17th November 2002

Blinkered thinking blights our industry

LAST week I was in Dusseldorf appearing on the German version of Top of the Pops with Sash, with whom I have collaborated on a song called Run. It seemed to be doing pretty well around Europe and was sitting at number 16 in Denmark.

The success of a record in Europe depends not only on sales but also on radio play and it can hover around the charts for months. I mention this because, in the days before what I call "conveyor belt" pop, a song could climb slowly up the British charts and was never written off before it was even released.

Now artists know the week before release whether their song will be a hit. If a record's not added to a radio station's (well, Radio 1's) playlist, most record shops will not stock it and it's over before it's had a chance.

The British record industry seems to be in a panic because sales are at an all-time low and I find myself being wheeled out to give a professional insight into why that may be.

This could be because I have always been very vocal about the short-term attitude of our industry and the fact that it no longer invests in artists and puts its faith in quick turnover acts plucked from annoying TV shows such as Pop Idol.

In America, British artists are not making any waves and the chance of another British invasion is remote because we are trying, rather foolishly, to sell back to them the type of music that they produce far better.

Even their boy bands are more polished, better looking and better dancers. It's like selling ice to the Eskimos.

In the latest edition of NME magazine, there is a poll for the all-time top 100 singles and recent band that have apparently had the biggest impact model themselves on such Sixties or Seventies groups as the Beatles or Velvet Underground.

It has always been a crime to imitate acts beyond that era because we are sadly stuck in a musical time-warp. A Seventies/Eighties based scene is blooming in the underground but acts who are part of it, Peaches, The Ping Pong Bitches, Atomiser and The Replicant, will never make daytime radio play because they use non-mainstream language.

So they remain best-kept secrets, fuelling the snobbery of magazines that call new electro tired while forgetting that, without bands like the Human League, there would be no dance music. Anyone who was around in their day will recall how shocking it was to see a band refusing to use the conventional rock 'n' roll set-up and openly bragging that their records were made without instruments.

This week i have done several interviews and TV documentaries about the state of British music, in part because we are at the 50th anniversary of the pop chart and everyone wants to know why our music industry is in such dire straits.

Perhaps it's because those fools who are running it are far too straight and short-term in their thinking.

ANYONE who saw American dance artist Moby on the Frank Skinner Show had to feel sorry for him because he's become the target of rap brat Eminem's wrath. Moby said he was nervous because he was about to do a concert in Europe where he and his tormentor would finally come face to face. He said he travels with one female companion, while Eminem has the obligatory possee of bouncers befitting such a star.

It is not time Eminem renounced his hatred of just about everything and everyone and got on with enjoying his success? I mean, who did not have a difficult childhood? So Moby dared to challenge Eminem's useless lyrical bile - is freedom of speech a one-way street?

24th November 2002

Now all men want a heavenly body

WHAT I would have paid to be a fly on the wall at the marketing pitch for the latest Lacoste perfume TV advert. I hope you've seen it, because I cannot for the life of me work out who it's directed at.

If you have not seen it, it's basically a very sculpted bloke, mostly seen from behind, moving in slow motion around a white room. Nothing odd about that, you might think, but it's a perfume for men. I spoke briefly with a straight male friend who agreed that Lacoste was not really a gay kind of clothing or perfume range. Mind you, neither is Hackett but you see lots of what's known in the gay world as "straight-acting, non scene" types donning those white tops that Hackett churns out with the British flag or Cross of St George.

Perhaps the ad was shot by a queen who just felt like looking at some strapping piece of male crumpet all day. Or does it fall in with my long-time theory that straight male vanity has finally caught up with the gay variety? You see, if this new perfume was directed at straight men, it would make sense to have a naked woman thrown in. A sort of "you too can be perfect, love yourself, get the girl and live happily ever after" message. Or perhaps the stylist slept in and didn't make the shoot?

Going deeper, it is more likely a sign of the times and straight guys are now allowed to adore themselves in all their gym-toned, masculine splendour without being called fairies. Or has Lacoste tapped into the huge potential in promoting to the gay community, with its disposable income?

Go back a few years, to boxer Henry Cooper telling the male community to, "'Plash it all ova'," and the choice of male smelly gifts was Brut or soap on a rope. How things have changed. Well, the sun always shines on TV - in the advertising world, anyway.

Having been at many an advertising pitch for musical scores and such, I know how rigig most executives are and I wonder how the producer sold this ad to Lacoste. Was it some queen throwing his arms around like Shirley Bassey? "We'll have a fierce sculpted bloke and every woman in the country will buy your product for their man in the hope he may dab a bit on and turn into Adonis - hey presto."

Or was the head honcho in the boardroom female? Men have been used as sex objects in adverts for some time but this is a huge leap forward. I have written before that it amuses me when I spot a builder with a gay designer name looming over his cement-splashed jeans. A triumph when you think these guys would knock you out for being called a poof.

The advertising world is full of crafty, conniving and manipulative creatures. But their tricks do not go unnoticed in my house.

GOD BLESS the lovely Lily Savage, alias Paul O'Grady, for asking why Taboo was not nominated for the Evening Standard Awards, which he is hosting this year. Oh well, that's life but thanks anyway, sister. More amusing is Standard theatre critic Nicholas de Jongh's article last week on the trails of being a critic. Did my little dig at him recently bring on this baring of the soul? He says he would rather be kind than cruel but that's like David Beckham claiming he hates cameras.

Demolishing a house is easier than building it. Clint Eastwood, I believe, said in cruder terms: "Opinions are like bottoms. Everybody has one and no one thinks their own stinks."

Nicholas hates being cruel as much as I hate wearing eyeliner and Joan Crawford loved dirt. If he hates it, why does he not just write about the things he likes and why did he become a critic? No one becomes a copper or a criminal by default. Wisdom is a comb given to a man when he is bald.

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