George Michael - Lucky Man

 

I don’t suppose George Michael is feeling lucky as he contemplates his eight-week jail sentence for smashing his Range Rover into the Hampstead branch of Snappy Snaps, but he is. Very lucky.

 

As I write this the day after (September 15, 2010), lots of people will feel sorry for him – and he certainly felt sorry for himself, reportedly “crying like a baby” after being sentenced and looking bewildered at how this misfortune could have happened to him.

 

But the fact is that it could happen very easily, and has been waiting to happen for years. How many times has he been found slumped at the wheel of his car in a cannabis-induced haze? Many times, according to newspaper reports from way back. Too many times.

 

I know young rock stars are meant to be outrageous, badly behaved and reckless, but George is 47, for goodness’ sake!

 

How sympathetic would the public be if, in ploughing in to the side of the shop in a drug-induced haze, his 4x4 had taken a few pedestrians with him – say, a mother and a couple of toddlers?

 

He would have been vilified, and only good luck has saved him from that. George needs to use this near-miss and sobering (in every sense) punishment as a wake-up call.

 

Talking of which, I loved the Sun’s irreverent front-page headline – ‘Lock me up, Before you Go-go...” Brilliant.

 

Say what you like about the Sun’s excesses (and I often do), no other newspaper even gets close when it comes to witty (if heartless) headlines.

 

Writing articles like this is really meant to support and draw attention to my after-dinner speaking activities, but I must admit that pop stars and politicians seldom figure in my after-dinner talks, apart from my one anecdote about interviewing Henry Kissinger. And he never had a single hit. I’m not counting all the hits on Cambodia…

 

I did once interview Phil Everly of the Everly Brothers, at the Tyne Tees studios in Newcastle, circa 1983, but he was far too modest, decent, courteous and nice to provide a suitably amusing story for an after-dinner audience.

 

Working in London a few years later I was invited to a press launch for a new TV documentary about Cliff Richard, where I could have interviewed Cliff, but I declined. Big mistake, as it turned out, because although I’m no great Cliff fan (apart from admiring his gift for staying young) many of my audiences are, especially when I’m speaking to ladies’ luncheon clubs, WI gatherings and the like. I’ve been asked several times by audience members (always female ones) whether I’ve interviewed Cliff and regretfully have to admit that I haven’t.

 

Gene Pitney was the most recent pop legend I interviewed. I did him for the Daily Express, the Scottish Daily Record and for English regional papers for his 2006 tour and he was lovely. Saw him in concert in Nottingham and he was brilliant. The following week he was dead. What a shock.

 

One pop star I do mention during my after-dinner speaking engagements is Frank Ifield, who turns 73 at the end of 2010 and is, astonishingly, still singing, still touring and still as handsome as ever.

 

I say ‘astonishing’ because I interviewed Frank, ooh, around 30 years ago (circa 1980) and didn’t expect him to last another decade, at least not with the same liver.

 

He gave a note-perfect performance, singing and playing guitar on all his old hits, at the Kettering Granada bingo club (oh the glamour!) but had to lean on the speakers as he slurred his way through the introductions to his songs.

 

Astonishingly, the bingo crowd seemed neither to notice this or to mind. After the show, I interviewed him in the dressing room as he swung gently to and fro as if caught in a breeze (though there was no Wayward Wind apparent – there might have been a bit of a draft), still clutching a wine glass and still slurring every sentence, but enunciating carefully.

 

This, I thought, was not the mark of a man who’d had a few too many on one solitary night on tour. It was more likely the mark of someone who habitually imbibed on an industrial scale.

 

But, I’m delighted he’s still going strong. And he was perfectly affable in his cups, which isn’t true of everyone.

 

I’ve also just discovered that Eric Morecambe, someone I do mention at some length in my after-dinner speeches, suggested to Frank and his first wife that they move to Harpenden, where he lived, after hearing that they were house-hunting. The couple did so, and spent many happy years there as Eric’s near-neighbours.

 

Perhaps Harpenden should put up a statue to match the one they already have of our beloved Eric.

 

George Michael may have to make amends before he gets his.