Wednesday, 5 September 2018


It's hard to believe that today would have been Freddie Mercury's seventy-second birthday. He feels as alive to me today as he did thirty years ago. Forever young, vibrant and full of it. I remember him as a tangle of contradictions. So shy at his own parties, he'd emerge from the bedroom only when the guests were all in place and when the bash seemed in full swing. He'd go round filling everyone's glass with champagne himself, so that he 'had an excuse to talk to them'. In the wings before a gig, he looked small and terrified. He was never a star away from the spotlight. He put on the stardom like an overcoat, and took it off again at the end of the show. I was never unamazed by the way he seemed to treble in size out on stage.
I've told it once or twice before, the way he shared his deepest secrets with me. We were in Montreux, at the White Horse Tavern. Freddie was with the French boys. He knew me. I'd watched from the side of the stage as Queen performed at Wembley for Live Aid in 1985. I'd seen them perform around the world by then. The band invited me for the ride to a string of destinations on the 'It's a Kind of Magic' tour in 1986. In Budapest, I attended Queen's reception at the British Embassy. I witnessed their historic show behind the Iron Curtain, one of their greatest live moments ever.
Freddie opened the conversation that night. He bought the next round. It wasn't nothing: he didn't trust the press, having been turned over by hacks in the past. But this was his bar, his stomping ground. He could be himself there.
'I can breathe here,' he said, dragging on a borrowed Marlboro Red.
'I can think and write and record, and go for a walk. I think I'm going to need it, these next few years.'
Without spelling it out, he was admitting that he was dying. He knew by then that he was infected with HIV. Not long afterwards, I discovered who was responsible. I never wrote it. I know precisely where his remains lie. I've never written that, either.
There was a time when journalism was perceived as a venerable profession. That impression fell off the side during the 1980s, when celebrity-bashing became an Olympic sport. Nevertheless, most of us who pursued the print dream did in fact respect the lines. Where they were drawn. How to resist the urge to step over them, keeping an eye on the bigger picture and the notion of some eventual prize. Reverse psychology. Ju-Jitsu technique. We often kidded ourselves.
Privacy was in those days a thing. The first thing that celebrities sacrificed. The last thing they realised they wanted back. Too late, too late. Freddie knew. He squinted into his vodka, swishing the glass.
'It's exactly the thing that keeps me awake at night,' he said. 'I've created a monster. I can't blame anyone else. It's what I've worked for since I was a kid. I would have killed for this. Whatever happens to me is all my fault. It's what I wanted. It's what we all strive for. Success, fame, money, sex, drugs - whatever you want. I can have it. But now I'm beginning to see that, as much as I created it, I want to escape from it. I'm starting to worry that I can't control it, as much as it controls me.'
No one could be more excited than I about the imminent Queen feature film, starring Rami Malek as Freddie and Lucy Boynon as Freddie's girlfriend Mary Austin. I worked as a script consultant to Peter Morgan, who wrote the original version of the screenplay. Now, in honour of the picture, Hodder & Stoughton are publishing a new edition of my book 'Freddie Mercury: The Definitive Biography'. Entitled 'Bohemian Rhapsody' to sync with the movie, it'll be here on 18th October. Thank you, Freddie. Happy birthday, wherever you are. See you sometime.

Thursday, 23 August 2018


The birthday fun continues. The firstborn is thirty-one today, impossibly. I have just been recounting the brutal birth to the assembled troops, and the girls are horrified. That's how it was in those days. Gas and air if you were lucky, a perineum torn from ear to ear (figuratively - they had me in stitches, literally), and a post partum haemorrhage to bring up the rear. As you were, people.
I'd like to write that I was a child bride. There was in fact no such luxury. Her father decided that he didn't want kids after all, and legged it to California. I had choices, and decided to go it alone. With a full-time job on Fleet Street, travelling transatlantically by the week, it wasn't the easiest. Nick Gordon saved my life when he poached me from the Mail to YOU Magazine, in those days a seriously credible rival to the Sunday Times Magazine. Nick was Editor of the Year three times in succession. How I wish he were still alive. 
My dream job there took me from the wings of West Coast stages to Iraqi war zones; from remote South Dakotan farms to Barry White's barbecue in Encino. I interviewed the world, it felt like, at times. Not even Frank Sinatra, who famously never gave interviews, escaped me. And all of it, for the first five years until she had to go to school, with my roving reporter Mia Clementine Jones under one arm. By this time, we were based in LA. The acclaimed movie producer Julia Phillips, who was the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Picture ('The Sting', 1973) and who also won accolades for Scorsese's 'Taxi Driver' and Spielberg's 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind', once offered me $3,000 in exchange for my daughter. True story. Charlton Heston took her to church, Grace Jones had her for lunch (not quite literally), and Billy Idol had her over to play with his little boy Willem. When Mia was offered the role of Macaulay Culkin's little English cousin in 'Home Alone 3', I knew it was time to return to Blighty. Reality check. A normal life beckoned.
We had eight years as a dynamic duo until marriage got the better of me. It was doomed, ultimately. But Mia got out of it the brother and sister she had craved. It has never been boring, not a minute of it, despite everything that went wrong. Eric Clapton once pointed out, a year or so after his little son Connor died so tragically, that there are things you don't get over. You have to find a comfortable place to put them. But they're always there. Despite all the angst and heartache and stress and backbreak of single motherhood - any motherhood - I would do it all again in a beat.
Happy birthday, beautiful firstborn. Keep in mind that life always offers second chances. It's called tomorrow. More than anything, be self-deprecating. You have no choice. When the hecklers get the better of you, get better. I love you, Mia. Love, Mamma.

Saturday, 11 August 2018


Definitive anthems of indefatigable womanhood (Philip Norman’s phrase): I’ve been thinking about them. This was prompted by the ‘I Will Survive’ weekend, a wild trip to Sitges below Barcelona for my debut live experience of Disco Queen Gloria Gaynor. How can that be, I wonder? I’ve seen everybody else. I just never got around to seeing Glo. Her globally-cherished self-empowerment classic was a bit of fun during days of wode and karaoke bars. It acquired significance for me while I was trying to get over my divorce. At first I was afraid, I was petrified … but I grew strong, and I learned how to get along. Discerning male music-lovers of my close acquaintance tend to scoff at both Gloria and at her chart chestnuts. Because they’re men, I guess. I can’t think of many artists of any gender who would turn up their noses at ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’, ‘I Am What I Am’ and ‘Survive’ as a hit legacy. Nor at her bank balance.

At sixty-nine, the artist is flagging, physically. But the voice remains rich and powerful. She has a three-sixty stage presence and a spiritual energy that reach to the bleachers, inspiring even the guys to punch the air. But despite the sizeable gay contingent present, this was incontestably ladies’ night. Glo’s entire show was a tense, perfectly-orchestrated build-up to the Freddie Perren/ Dino Fekaris chart-topper, the pièce de résistance, the one we’d all come to hear. She slid into it sensuously, like an aural striptease, dragging out the suspense, bringing us to the brink, then going for the full-on disembogue. We howled, we shuddered.

I’m not ashamed to admit that this was the song that reminded me to be a bitch. To kick ass. To get up off it and to go again. To rescue my children and celebrate the end of all things bad. Still think about him? Only fleetingly. It’s the negative that surfaces. The smashing up the kitchen, extra-virgin and Merlot running down the walls at breakfast time. The endless lockings in the cellar, the Courvoisier bottle to the head. Who needs? Baby, I’m done. Go on, now, go. Still bitter about the many wasted years? Get outta here. Life begins again. It begins again every morning. All it takes is somebody to love. Miss Ross, I’m still waiting.

But I know so many women in bad relationships. We’re not supposed to be angry, are we. Where-we-are-we-are is not compulsory in the 21st century. Contempt and boredom are life-threatening. There are choices. Come on now, quit. Get out, get happy. Convert your broken heart into a crystal ball for a brand-new life. If I can, anyone can. Digging my clichés?

Empowering women with music is no new thing. Wind back through Beyoncé’s ‘If I Were a Boy’ and ‘Irreplaceable’, Lily Allen’s ‘Smile’, Alanis Morissette’s ‘You Oughta Know’ via Mary J. Blige’s ‘Enough Cryin’’, Dusty’s ‘All Cried Out’, circumnavigating Queen Latifah and Christina, Alicia and Cyndi and Shania, pausing at Janet Jackson’s ‘Control’, Nancy’s ‘Boots’, Aretha’s ‘Respect’. Take it all the way back to Arthur Hamilton’s ‘Cry Me a River’, a hit for Julie London in 1955 but really for Ella, whose version I favour only a little ahead of Crystal Gayle’s (’though Shirley Bassey’s, Dinah Washington’s and Streisand’s takes are hard to beat too); to Loretta, Tammy and Dolly and, ultimately, to blessed Kitty Wells. Who reminds us, in her rendition of Jimmy D. Miller’s killer, that ‘It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels’:
      '… as you said in the words of your song,
           too many times married men think they’re still single,
           that has caused many a good girl to go wrong.'

Same as it ever was?

‘Ever it was’, actually.

Wednesday, 8 August 2018


NEON, a new play by Patrick Swain,
Presented by Caged Bird Theatre 
Touring production of Exeter, Nottingham and the Camden Fringe Festival 2018

Lawyer Sarah shares her flat with reclusive oddball John, who seems to think that he’s God. Sarah’s psychotherapist girlfriend Jude is counselling an American patient called Thomas, who hears voices and sees visions of a man in his flat. When Jude goes round to Sarah’s and comes face to face with John and his laurel-wreath necklace, connections are made that have far-reaching and sinister consequences.

The theme of ‘Neon’ is religion in both its universal and most personal sense. Which poses questions. Have social media and our obsession with Self replaced the need for faith in a higher power? Or has it made us more dependent on it? Humanity having made gods – false idols – of material things, which we invented ourselves, how do we control their effect on our minds and desires going forward?

This tight, funny, tragic, often devastating piece hinges on a line from ‘the Sound of Silence’, the 1964/65 song by Simon and Garfunkel from their debut album ‘Wednesday Morning, 3A.M.’: ‘And the people bowed and prayed/to the neon gods they made.’ The internet was a world away at that point. Most modern forms of communication were sci-fi fantasies. Did Paul Simon experience premonition, or was he just a kid strumming a guitar and chewing words on the bathroom floor? His reference to neon signs was a comment on advertising and consumerism rather than on social media that did not yet exist. But the message remains relevant. The more technological methods of interaction we create, the less capable we are of communicating with each other in real terms. The less inclined we are towards original thought. You get the picture.

The biblical references are subtle, but also loud and clear. During Jesus Christ’s ministry, ‘followers’ were not the faithful, but were idol-worshipers. What else are we today? Both faith and social media are about people finding their reality and truth in a non-physical dimension. The thought of ‘God’ liaising via Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and blogging in order to preserve and perpetuate faith might seem absurd. Until Swain, inspired, follows the rabbit down the hole, that is, giving us ‘Jude’ and ‘Abraham’, summoning ghosts of Christmases past and yet to come, flinging unpalatable truths in our startled faces and challenging us on the most provocative tenet of all: that it doesn’t really matter what we believe, as long as we believe in something.

Prepare thy table. Belief is a construct, a cultural constant, this precocious young playwright knows. Behold, the shepherd and his sheep. Likewise after supper, he took the communion Capri-Suns.

Monday, 16 July 2018


If I could have back the lost weekends in the grass, the Glastos, the Readings, the Knebworths, the Isle of Wights. I gave up festivals years ago. Primarily because they were never about the music, but about loitering within tents, messing about with your musicbiz mates and boozing. You have kids, you grow up. I can never fathom those folk who take babies to open-air gigs.
Yet there are times to go back. We'll do it for legends, the opportunities to see and hear them receding all the time. We don't get our skin out. We shield ourselves from head to foot, but still boil in the blistering sun. We resist the champagne tents and the awful food. We glue our faces with Factor 50, equip ourselves with agua and face sprays, tissues and baby wipes, and are a bit Girl Guide about it. We seek swift stiffeners at the Hilton across from the park, in the Windows on the World. That's some view from the twenty-eighth floor, by the way. I had forgotten it. We brace ourselves to jostle among the throng for a few final shreds of the soundtrack of our lives.
Bonnie Raitt hauled us back to her roots. The ten-time Grammy winner who makes a mockery of sixty-nine is as great a guitarist as she is a singer, still pulling magic out of the same Fender Strat that she's used in every gig she's played since the Sixties. 'Nick of Time' and INXS's 'One of My Kind' were the stand-outs - the song that started life, in 1987, as 'Need You Tonight', and was later renamed.
James Taylor is much older than his seventy years, in many ways. His nine lives, triumphs and nightmares are all in the songs. The hair's gone, the cap's on, but the smile is as youthful as it ever was. 'Carolina In My Mind', Carole King's 'You've Got a Friend' and 'Fire and Rain' mesmerised. Taylor penned the cowboy lullaby ‘Rockabye Sweet Baby James’ for his newborn nephew, who was named after his uncle. The baby's father, Alex, was James's brother. He died on James's birthday, in 1993. 'There is another America,' he told the vast crowd, in a thinly-veiled reference to the embarrassment felt by millions of Americans at what their country has become under The Donald. Fear not, was the message: 'We'll be back.'
The eldest of the trio headlined in what is billed as his 'Farewell Tour'. Will he do a Tina Turner on us, and play fifteen comebacks? Only time will tell. Paul Simon celebrated a seven-decade career in the time-honoured fashion of subjecting us to a trawl of as yet obscure tracks from the forthcoming new album, while leaving the hits until the encores. 'America', 'Me and Julio' and 'Mother and Child Reunion' thrilled before the big one: his reclamation of 'the best song I ever wrote'.
'I gave away my best one,' lamented seventy-six year-old Simon, of 'Bridge over Troubled Water', meaning that he surrendered it to the voice of Art. 'This is the first time I've sung it. I'm reclaiming it. I am taking back my long lost child.'
Life, drugs and booze do the withering. Angels save the brave. They go again, rejuvenated by their own resilience. Music rescues them. It rescues us all.

Wednesday, 11 July 2018


Gilbert O'Sullivan's showcase at 100 Wardour Street last night whisked us back to the time when time stood still. The half-mast trews and offside cloth cap are a memory. He still cuts his own hair, still sings with Waterford clarity, his quirky, gentle songwriting and plaintive themes at times hard to hear.
He was on top of the world in 1972. He was my first crush. Superstardom was as good as all over by 1975. But they don't go away. They keep doing it. A dozen albums later, a Glasto, an Albert Hall. He's still big in Japan.
There were tears in the eerily mauve-lit room, not least in the eyes of men. Ray performed tracks from his new album 'Gilbert O'Sullivan', to be launched next month, interspersed with the songs of way back when. 'Clair', 'We Will', 'No Matter How I Try', 'Alone Again (Naturally)', 'Get Down', 'Nothing Rhymed'. Could we take much more? Why is this hard to write?
It's true, isn't it, that the music we loved as kids means more with each passing year. Such songs hold disproportionate power over our memories. The brain binds us tightly to the soundtrack of our youth, more than anything we encounter down the line as adults. The connection never loosens. All it takes is for a song to be heard again. Musical nostalgia, explain the scientists, is much more than just a cultural phenomenon. ‘Doc Rock’ Julia Jones has authored a brilliant thesis on this theme. It's no less than a major neurological command. We stay wired to the songs that awoke us to love and life. It's that simple. I think.
But memories mean little without emotion. And nothing stimulates emotion better than music. It lights the sparks of neural activity. On rare occasions, it ignites it into a full pyrotechnic display. The music we love between the ages of twelve and twenty-two, when our brains are undergoing rapid neurological development, gets wired into our lobes for all time. Even as the importance of childhood memories fades, the emotional glow provoked by music lingers.
The years may have evaporated and can be experienced no more. But hear the songs we loved when those memories were being made and we are zipped right back there. The love and joy that they made us feel surge anew. Thank you, Ray, for reminding us.

Wednesday, 4 July 2018


My father covered ten World Cup tournaments. He wrote about their games, glories and fall-outs with the style and flair of the polished journalist, but with the courage and gut emotion of a genuine footballer. Which he had been. He played professionally before I was born, was injured out, and strayed far. Fleet Street called. He took his talent to the Daily Mirror and the Sunday Mirror, both roaring newspapers in their day, and then on to the Independent, at its inception. His confident overview, insightful sentences and acerbic observations floored the competition, took him around the world and made his name.
It's a big-bucks game these days. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when footballing excellence as good as defined this country, presenting fair play and best-of-British values; when the working man's fun gave us something to look up to. Then money happened. Sponsorship kicked in. Premiership players became obscenely overpaid. The heart was ripped out. Isn't it always.
Though my footballing forebears are mostly dead and buried, their names never heard of by most modern fans, they were once one of the greatest British footballing families. If I felt the game's decline personally, it wasn't hard to see why. My grandfather Emlyn Jones and his four brothers, five of ten kids, all played for Merthyr Town FC in Wales before being sold to English clubs. Grandad went to Everton. My great uncle Bryn became the world's most expensive player in 1939 when he was sold by Wolves to Arsenal for £14,500. The fee caused a riot on Downing Street, what with Europe teetering on the brink of war. History repeated during the 1950s and '60s when three of the sons of those five brothers, Ken, Bryn Jnr. and Cliff, turned professional. Our family soared again, producing the most valuable player on earth for a second time. 'Uncle Cliff' was a star at Spurs. The original Gareth Bale. My father Ken Jones turned out for Southend United, Swansea and Hereford before becoming a writer in 1958, and eventually the Voice of Sport.
Football gave in to corporate investment and gentrification. But where there was once dignity, there is precious little these days.
If the FIFA World Cup has a purpose beyond showcasing competition between the best on the planet, it could be to remind us not only of how beautifully the game can be played, but what it represents. Like baseball in America, the one constant down all the years has been our national sport. It marks time. It's why the tournament matters. It reminds us, as the writer said in the movie 'Field of Dreams', of all that was once good, and could be again.
People will come. They will flock to living rooms and kitchens and back gardens and sports bars and streets on Saturday afternoon, clutching beers and bottles and bags of crisps, and reaching for burnt offerings from barbecues; they will waft into private members' clubs and to giant screenings in leisure centres, fine refreshment on tap. A quarter-final is a quarter final. We may not be spared. The best team on the day will win. Gareth Southgate's knighthood is perhaps assured, not only for having galvanised a clutch of boys into achieving what has long been impossible, but for having restored diminished dignity; for having moulded a role-model team; for having inspired pride; and for revealing a glint of a foreign country, our distant collective past. We did things differently there. We won. We are winning now. Whether or not we lose.

Monday, 18 June 2018


People often ask me why I spend so much time 'hanging around with old rockers.' Well. It's in the eye of the beholder, right? Youthful beauty, zipless sex, plastic surgery and fake news have their place in a heartless world. True friendship, love and loyalty can sometimes seem pointless in our shakily selfish age. But I have always found those qualities in abundance in the music industry.
Last night's gig at the Charing Cross Theatre being a case in point. We were there to celebrate folk legend Julie Felix's eightieth birthday. Yes, eighty. The die-hard troubadour was marching for peace, equality and women's rights before most of us were born. She was hosting her own acclaimed, star-studded shows on BBC television while many of us were still in nappies. She hung with George Harrison; told Macca that 'Strawberry Fields' was 'ok, I s'pose' when he played her the first acetate; lent a young Canadian poet her father's Mexican guitar on the Greek island of Hydra so that he could write the songs that would turn him into Leonard Cohen; became the female Bob Dylan and recorded many of his songs - a whole album's worth, at one point. And she invested in her friends, with the love and loyalty that would glue them together for a lifetime, forming bonds that would never be torn.
They were there in force last night, lending their talent and exuberance to an occasion that will long dwell in the memory. Madeline Bell, seventy-five on acid, she of Blue Mink fame, who sang the BVs on the Stones' 'You Can't Always Get What You Want'. Her take on Billie Holiday's 'God Bless the Child That's Got His Own' shook the venue harder than the tube trains rumbling through Embankment station, and the tribute she sang with Julie to their lamented buddy Dusty Springfield, featuring Carole King's 'Goin' Back', was breathtaking. John Paul Jones, seventy-two, legendary bassist, mandolin and keyboard star with Led Zeppelin, accompanied Julie on her own songs unrehearsed, in his usual smiley and unassuming way. And John Cameron, who once worked with Cilla, Donovan and Hot Chocolate, who rearranged Led Zep's 'Whole Lotta Love' as the theme tune for 'Top of the Pops', who was musical director of Julie's many TV series, scored movies the likes of 'A Touch of Class' with Glenda Jackson, and arranged/conducted the Boubil/Schonberg concept album that became 'Les Miserables', winning him countless awards, is seventy-four ... Bass player Charley Foskett and an array of saucer-eyed backing singers seemed mere newborns.
But the oldies are spring chickens in the scheme. It is their secret. So feel young, reading this. Do as these guys did, and are still doing, even at an age when they don't need the money and no longer have anything to prove. Take charge of your one precious life. Don't wish for it, work for it. Hang with real people, honest people, and hang on, for all time, to the best. They don't grow on trees. They will all too soon be gone, though 'never gone from spirit', as Julie urges us to believe. Remembering her words makes me wish, so wish, for one last laugh, one more crack at the mischief, with 'the Unforgottens': Jim Diamond, Roger Scott, David Bowie, Rob Lee, Nick Gordon, Freddie Mercury and Nick Fitzherbert.
Happy birthday, Miss Tambourine Man. Forever Young. See you at your Ninetieth. 

Friday, 1 June 2018


Meandering through the all-too-familiar songbook, the voice is fractured, frail and wanting. He talks more than he sings, that old Artie arrogance rearing as he reads out self-penned poems from random sheets, the verses lauding the great blessed life he leads. 'Scarborough Fair', he imparts, is a song he always thought of as 'lovely wallpaper', only realising lately that it is a lament 'about loss. Because we've all lost HER. We all know what that kind of loss is about.' 'Kathy's Song' is pre-ambled with tangled musings. 'The Sound of Silence', Paul Simon's 1964 reckoning about the assassination of JFK, is a wisp of its once magical self. 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' is so epic in all our hearts and minds that I wish he hadn't crossed it by himself. Then '99 Miles to LA', via which he at last rises to the occasion, and echoes the greatness of yore in this great hall.
We didn't get 'Mrs Robinson', 'Song for the Asking', 'The 59th Street Bridge Song', 'The Boxer', or 'The Only Living Boy in New York'. I guess too much epic past is too much for a worn-out heart.
Why do this, then? Seventy-six is seventy-six. Touring and live performing are the most challenging aspects of being a musician. Why not stay home with Kathryn, the beautiful wife he calls 'Kim', and with Beau Daniel, the second son born to them via a surrogate mother, a brother for James, the little apple of their eyes, the everything to live for?
I'm not saying that this was not worth seeing, not worth hearing. Because we rock up for these gigs and what we experience, deep in our souls, is what we want to remember. We are not hearing Arthur (as he refers to himself often, in the third person) as he sounds now, but as he sounded then. We are right there, at the immense reunion concert in Central Park in 1981.
There are times when we shouldn't go back. But how do we know, unless we do so, unless we lend a willing ear? I am always moved by live music, but felt curiously unmoved by this legend whose unique, haunting, blood-stopping voice I have long loved. And then, the moment. A preamble about creatures, and about singing to cows. And without introduction, the ghostly opening bars of one of the most perfect songs of all time: 'Bright Eyes'.
He dedicates it, thankfully, to its creator: our dear Mike Batt. He wonders aloud to his adoring audience whether Mike is in the house. Art should have known whether or not he was. He should have invited him. He should have brought Mike up on stage and thanked him personally for the greatest gift of his career. It is the single song that will carry Art Garfunkel forward into the centuries to come. Thank God Mike wrote it. Thank God Art sang it. Enough.

Friday, 25 May 2018


Good to talk with BBC Radio Kent's Kate Recordon on the Drive-Time show this afternoon, about Harvey Weinstein. The 'Pulp Fiction' and 'Shakespeare in Love' producer handed himself in to the NYPD this morning, was handcuffed, escorted to court, and charged with rape, sex abuse and other crimes against two women: one of them Lucia Evans, the other choosing to remain anonymous (as is her right). It is important to remember that no trial has yet taken place, and that Weinstein remains innocent until proven guilty. Having said that, the weight of evidence against him looks overwhelming, and appears to be increasing by the day.
This man undoubtedly used his position, influence, wealth and power to lure vulnerable young women, most of them would-be stars, into situations in which he could violate them sexually. He does not deny most of this behaviour. He has always denied non-consensuality. He would, wouldn't he. His attorney reminds us that Mr Weinstein did not invent the Hollywood casting couch, and that bad behaviour is not on trial here: it's criminality that is. Was there any? How difficult sex crimes are to prove. It's usually one woman's word against one man's, which is why so many rape victims recoil in horror from going public with their experiences. We all know how that can go. But how many other female victims will now feel galvanised and emboldened into coming forward to declare #MeToo?
I know few women of my generation who have NOT been subjected to sexual violation of some kind. My friends and I discuss it. We conclude that we were always made to feel that it was our fault in some way, for being young, cute, and irresistible to the beast in man. They 'couldn't help it,' they'd plead. Or they were 'having a mid-life crisis.' But we were not toys. And isn't it always the seemingly avuncular and safe sorts who get away with it for the longest time? Kevin Spacey. Bill Cosby. Rolf Harris. Roman Polanski is on thinner and thinner ice. And now, accusations against Morgan Freeman, which so many male friends are refusing to believe. Who next? Will Woody Allen's luck at last run out?
Meanwhile, as well as an additional federal investigation against Weinstein, similar cases are mounting in Los Angeles and London. Gwyneth Paltrow and Angelina Jolie are marching at the head of an ever-swelling clan.
The time has come, declared one commentator, for men to call out other men who are guilty of such behaviour. The tide is turning, for sure. But the world will not change for good, nor to the lasting benefit of all our daughters and grand-daughters, until the male of the species stops sticking up for the bad guys and adds his voice to the chorus. Men, all of you, are you listening? #YouToo.

Sunday, 13 May 2018


The story began one night at Chrysalis Records, in 1982. Ex Scorpion Michael Schenker was in the office at Stratford Place for a summit. There was trouble at t’mill, and the blonde bomber was pleading for help. Having sacked MSG’s original singer Gary Barden for Rainbow’s Graham Bonnet, he’d got more than he’d bargained for when blind-drunk Bonnet exposed himself on stage in Sheffield, broke the law and compromised the band. It was, funnily enough, Graham’s only gig with MSG. He’d managed to record just one album with them before falling off the side spectacularly. Talk was of Irish rocker Robin McAuley, formerly of Grand Prix, joining the line-up, and of whether the band should rewrite its name to reflect the collaboration. McAuley, incidentally, currently performs in the Vegas production of Harry Cowell's and Simon Napier-Bell's 'Raiding the Rock Vaults'.
Sitting silently in a corner of the Chrysalis board room that evening, taking it all in, was a threadbare, pixie-eyed artful dodger, belatedly of Decca and Rocket, shuffling cards, twitching knives and perfecting the art of the unexpected. His flick-fingered routines and libidinous innocence proved too much for the man with the flying V. Our peroxided metal guru leapt eventually from his chair, leather-squeaked his way to the walnut double doors and delivered a parting shot that went down in history:
‘Zeig mir nicht mehr Tricks!
Don’t show me any more tricks!’
Michael Schenker fell on hard times. The boy magician became a massive star. During the early Nineties, when British television broadcast on only five channels and when to be a household face on one of them was a really big deal, the young upstart had sharpened both his blades and his wits and had reinvented himself as the antithesis of Paul Daniels. His bizarre, almost X-rated approach to stage magic, vice and illusion turned his fortune. As if overnight, the over-lit world of light entertainment grew darker than anyone had previously imagined it could. Millions will remember the two globally-acclaimed series of Simon Drake’s ‘The Secret Cabaret’. The rest of you can find it on YouTube.
Why only two series? Television didn’t thrill the boy wonder for long. Mass media attention did little to whet his enthusiasm. He retreated to a Gothic mansion in one of London’s most ancient parishes, and became an eccentric recluse. He raised a family, wondered a lot about life, and licked his wounds for twenty years. What goes around, comes around. Now ‘The Secret Cabaret’ is back, but in a live format only, somewhere not too challenging a totter from the Thames, in a location which will never be disclosed. You have to be there, on the guest list of the House of Magic.
There is no indication, on arrival, as to what lies within. The mansion is situated in a quiet residential neighbourhood off the beaten track. Its exterior bears no clue as to its inner secrets. Stepping gingerly through the Enchanted Garden into a living museum of magic, one escapes the distant howling of wolves, sinister rustlings in the undergrowth and eerily-glowing ponds into the overblown gorgeousness of the Red Room, lured by a headless butler who points the way to knockout pre-dinner cocktails. Seduced on a whispering chair, persuaded with fortune-tellings, mystics and dungeon tours, and invited to feast on a fine repast while table tricksters do the rounds, the visitor is agog by the time the lights are dimmed, the smoke is belched, and the full-blown celebration of the Dark Arts begins.
Expect nothing of the brand of magic associated with ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ or some predictable Las Vegas revue. This show is terrifying, mesmerizing and arousing in equal blasts. So popular with the showbiz fraternity has Drake’s House of Magic proved that his diary is booked out for months: private parties for international celebrities, after-shows, movie launches, corporate happenings, the complete shebang. Still, our crazed host holds back a handful of nights for the experienced, the curious and the eager to suspend disbelief. And now, for the resurrection of ‘The Secret Cabaret’. For grappling with death is the essence of life. It is here, anyway.

Thursday, 19 April 2018


So many memories of and thoughts about Dale Winton. Few knew what a prolific London club DJ he was during the Seventies and Eighties. His knowledge of popular music was encyclopaedic. It was what led Phil 'The Collector' Swern to cast him as host of BBC Radio 2's 'Pick of the Pops' in 2000. Dale hosted the show for a decade, and was born to the role.
His TV-presenter image was at times uncool, in the Michael Barrymore/Les Dennis mould. This was unfortunate. While he relished the roles, he never seemed completely at ease in them. I often felt how much better his face was suited to radio, in the figurative rather than the literal sense, and how much more comfortable he seemed behind a microphone than in front of a television camera.
There have been thankfully few bitter words about him. Many of those paying tribute have applied the word 'kind', and he was nothing if not that. I remember once being late for a medical appointment in Wimpole Street, and driving round and round. Edging along Marylebone High Street for the fifth time, I spied DW gossiping with a shop assistant outside the White Company, when it used to be on the opposite side of the street. He must have spotted me circling, because he started windmilling frantically, jumped in his Range Rover, rolled it forwards to make way for my Renault, and cried, 'Don't worry about the meter, I'll be here for ages and I'll keep an eye!' He relished doing a favour. Anyone and everyone. It is the little things.
Much has been made of his failure to attend his great friend Cilla Black's funeral in 2015. But that was easy to understand. Dale had never recovered from the loss of his mother Sheree, upon whom he doted. His personal void could never be filled, because he had not been able to bring himself to come out to his mum. He had never plucked up the courage to reveal his true identity - though it is reckoned that Sheree probably knew. Cilla, a little over a decade older than Dale, became an adoring mother figure to him. He could not face Cilla's funeral because it was like having to confront his mother's death over again. A similar thing happened to Queen's bassist John Deacon. Having lost his father when he was only eleven years old, John was forced to relive the loss when Freddie Mercury died. Freddie had long been his father figure. His death backed John into the corner where at last he had no choice but to deal with denial. John was unable to cope, lost the plot, quit the band, betrayed his wife with another woman, let down his kids... grief does things. Though it is inappropriate to speculate, perhaps Dale went there too. Reckon in the fact that Sheree took her own life. I won't be surprised to hear what I fear to hear.
R.I.P., kind man. I hope they have vinyl up there.

Wednesday, 18 April 2018


Great churnings of citizens have evaporated from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea since Kim Jong Un came to power following the death of his father in 2011. The strangely-shaped and shaven dictator has since carved a name for himself as the chief executioner of the modern world, commanding the assassinations of family, friends and officials by firing squad, by blasting them with mortar rounds, by burning them alive via flame throwers, and by feeding their bodies to starving dogs. KJU is a bloodthirsty and murderous goon with the worst human rights record in the modern world. Under his rule, there is no such thing as 'human rights'. There is no free speech, the media is government-controlled, and foreign visitors are strictly monitored. Off to the peninsula on holiday? Mind how you go.
We're often assured that tales of forced labour, torture and human experimentation are greatly exaggerated. But the United Nations, Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International all condemn. The thought of President Trump sitting there idly considering five comfy locations for a summit with KJU is more than a little sickening, therefore. Shake hands and smile for the cameras, and all will be rehabilitated and well? Tell it to the estimated 200,000 North Koreans incarcerated in political prison camps tucked away in hostile, inaccessible regions, their existence denied by the NK authorities. Tell it to the family of his former defence chief, executed recently because he happened to fall asleep at a military event, his murder witnessed by hundreds of state officials.
Tell it to the teenagers of South London Youth Theatre, who have performed In-Sook Chappell's haunting, horrifying play 'The Free 9' at Theatre Peckham as part of National Theatre Connections 2018. Inspired by the true story of the 'Laos 9', it drops in on a clutch of street orphans forced to live a life of depravity and degradation while dreaming of a happy-ever-after of consumerism, sugar, fame and pop in the free South. Is their bid for freedom merely a fantasy, or a real and dangerous attempt? Haunted by lost relatives portrayed as eyeless zombies, and by the fear of capture and punishment, there will never be release for these youngsters. Not even if they escape.
How heart-stopping and mind-invading, the true efforts of this incredible group of teenaged performers guided by their producer-director Spencer James. They immersed themselves with every fibre in a slice of what the world needs to know. Out of the mouths of babes, President Trump. Out of the mouths of babes.

Tuesday, 20 February 2018


It remains the single most vital piece of advice I have ever been given by another writer. It was imparted by the matchless Joan Didion during an interview for YOU Magazine in San Francisco, mid-Eighties, when I was but a blade of grass in the lawn beneath the steeples of her Hemingway-inspired prose. Situation unchanged.
Lunch is time's thief, tearing scribes from their desks, luring motivation into the recesses of mid-day indulgence, and discarding it there with a sneer. Lunch divides the day, making a mockery of a morning's toil and rendering useless the flimsy hours thereafter. It is one of the reasons why I have long collected the better excuses for the cancellation of lunches I should never have committed to in the first place. Today's is a blinder and has been logged for future use. Do you think I'd get away with it?
'I've just returned from a holiday learning to kitesurf,' imparted the intended lunch date, 'and I have to see a doctor about my injuries. Call it a midlife crisis.' Though secretly delighted that an uninterrupted day of work now stretches before me - I'm ghostwriting a huge memoir for a formidable client - I couldn't help but wonder. Last year, my friend took up kayaking, and raised a tidy sum for charity - in the name of a friend's little boy who had recently died from a rare disease. Now kitesurfing. My initial thought being, for whatever reason, he is working his way through sports beginning with K. But Kabaddi and Karate fall before Kayaking in the alphabet, Kickball and Kickboxing precede Kitesurfing, and for the life of me I cannot imagine my friend, athletic and appealing for a fifty-something though he is, attempting Ken-Do, Knife-Throwing or Kung-Fu ...
He suggested further dates that I simply cannot commit to. Because Writers Don't Do Lunch. And anyway, would he still be alive? Would he have resisted the urge to hurtle on mindlessly through the sporting alphabet to the most life-threatening pursuits of our race's most gnashing dare-devils? Might he even, as we speak, be preparing to launch himself from Pyeongchang's mighty peaks in an attempt to confound the achievements of Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards?
For the record, cocktails at around 5.30pm is the preferred slot. I usually feel deserving of a couple by then. On dry, sea-levellish land, with reasonable access to conventional forms of transport and a comprehensive beverage menu to hand. Soho is obvious.

Sunday, 11 February 2018


Perhaps it did not snow deep in the woods as mourners trod the time-worn path to the funeral of a friend. Perhaps there were not drifts and flurries to muffle misery, nor icy ground, though I had longed for them, maybe imagining an arctic setting for this tragic farewell. It only drizzled, and there were signs of life around the graves that would receive him; the shoots of coming daffodils against grey, ancient stone. He would have liked that.
That Nick Fitzherbert was a vibrant, exceptional, generous and dutiful man could be in no doubt from the eulogies that followed. We all knew this from having known him while he lived. Which was why we gathered, gripped in grief, remembering, giving thanks and doing ritualistic things while wondering for the life of us why he was taken.
Cancer is the grimmest reaper. He has scythed away the best in recent times. I remembered them yesterday, a roll-call of brilliant boys who were seized too soon: Roger Scott, Rob Lee, Nick Gordon, Charles Armitage, Jim Diamond, David Bowie. Men who changed my life and those of countless others, irrevocably. In the end, I had thought, there is always Nick. But now there isn't.
Many knew him better, for longer; had greater claim and more right to grieve. That there was standing room only in the church of his childhood was proof enough of his worth.
Nick's thing was music. A fervent fan as a young teenager at Charterhouse School, he launched a mobile disco with his younger brother Ivan and ran it enthusiastically for years, before deciding it was time to get a proper job. He surpassed himself as a PR, as a coach of presentation skills, as an internationally-published author and even as a magician and member of the Magic Circle. But his enthusiasm for music never waned. His knowledge was unsurpassed, too. His contributions to my books were of course invaluable. He and David Stark were my most loyal gig companions. You have your work cut out now, DS.
It had been a few years since I last visited Hurtwood Park, the Surrey polo club owned and run by Jayne and Kenney Jones. How Small Faces devotee Nick would have loved that his family held his farewell there. I expect he knows.

Thursday, 1 February 2018


'Hamilton' is breathtaking. I felt as though I knew it verbatim: my kids have been singing the songs to me for the past two years. They have the whole thing by heart, as do their friends. Its influence on millennials has been that nuclear.
But nothing could have prepared me. This is musical theatre rewritten and reinvented. It makes a mockery of the 'Mamma Mias', the 'Lion Kings' and the 'Phantoms' without trying. It takes 'Les Miserables' to a logical conclusion. It states, in so doing, that the language of the genre is simply the magic of song and dance distilled. Little else. It needs no special effects (although the lighting design here is inspired). It is political. It deploys the pantomime tweak of the evolving send-up of current affairs. It compares gun crime and the plight of immigrants in the 18th Century to those exact-same blots on the American landscape today. It ridicules our own imperial past. It is so quick, so subtle, that one could see it a dozen times and still get but a soupcon of the whole. But it's hip hop. How on earth can this work? You have to be there. 

Its creator Lin Manuel Miranda might be the Shakespeare of our age. The thing is, just see it, and let it wash over you, like a tidal wave. Less musical, more definitive moment in history. After 'Hamilton', things will never be the same.

Sunday, 28 January 2018


I met Paula and Nick Fitzherbert through mutual Dulwich College parent-chums when our sons were pupils there. When my marriage collapsed in cruel circumstances, they were the only couple who didn't run away. While the rest of Dulwich behaved as though I had leprosy, crossing the road outside the school gates to avoid having to talk to me and perhaps running the risk of becoming contaminated, Paula and Nick continued to invite me as though I were still a real and valid person. Nick and I took to going to gigs together, by artists obscure and long-forgotten, or fledgling and as yet unsigned. It was a bit like a live-musical version of the TV quiz game 'Pointless', in which we endlessly tried to out-do each other by finding the least prolific band imaginable...
Nick died today. The big C finally got the better of him. I have no right to feel devastated. He was not ours to lose. Still, I am sad beyond words, and have spent the day reflecting on both his upbeat and giving spirit and his ever-ready willingness to help, never expecting any favour in return. When Brian Bennett, Ed Bicknell and I decided that we should put together a commemorative CD to celebrate the long and all-encompassing career of Clem Cattini, for example, and I was up to my eyes in Bowie, Nick stepped in with an offer to design and create the packaging. Phil 'The Collector' Swern selected the tracks and worked out the running order. All I had to do was write the words.
The anecdote below appears in my memoir-biography of David Bowie, 'Hero'. Nick told it with glee, and it about sums him up. What a friend he has been. How very, painfully much we are going to miss him.
David Bowie spent his fortieth birthday skiing in Switzerland with his son, and relaxing before the onslaught. He had no idea that a major sponsorship and marketing deal was going on behind his back. He was supposedly going to accept sponsorship from the makers of Babycham - the sparkling perry which had been hugely popular in the UK during the Sixties and Seventies, and the first alcoholic drink to be advertised on British TV.
‘The sponsorship deal was for Bowie's 1987 Glass Spider tour,’ recounts Nick Fitzherbert, a former public relations expert, presentation skills coach, magician, member of the Magic Circle, and author of the books 'Presentation Magic!' and 'The Business Presenter's Survival Guide'.
‘The client was Showerings, and I was working on their PR. Francis Showering was the Shepton Mallet, Somerset brewer who invented the drink. Babycham was still a big brand in those days, but they were looking to reinvent it. They thought that David Bowie would be a sure-fire fast-track way to do this. This all went on for about four months.
‘They talked to David Bowie’s people. It got as far as Concorde flights going backwards and forwards to New York. A comprehensive video was made to explain why it was all such a brilliant idea. I didn’t personally believe that it would ever happen. But I knew more about music than anyone else on the team, so I got dragged to all these important meetings with lawyers for both sides.

'All the contracts were drawn up in both names - David Bowie and David Jones. The idea was that he would promote the product during his live performances on the forthcoming tour. We hadn’t got as far as deciding exactly how we were going to brand it, but an enormous amount of money had already been spent. I was planning to start with an outrageous idea, such as, David was going to perform with a microphone shaped like a Babycham bottle, and he’d have it in his face all the time, during every concert! Perfect! Then somebody thought, finally, that perhaps it might be a good idea to mention it to David himself. Needless to say, his horrified reaction was "Absolutely no way!" You’d think that someone might have thought to ask him first!’

Wednesday, 24 January 2018


I am distracted from work this morning by having seen 'Darkest Hour' last night. A few thoughts linger. I knew from the reviews that the whole truth is not told. Hollywood does our children such a disservice in this way. As they do not read, and have no firm handle on modern history, millennials tend to ingest as hard fact whatever is put before them on screen. No use telling them until you are blue in the face.
'Darkest Hour' leaves us in no doubt as to the statesman's contrary nature. It gives us the prime minister who played an essential role in liberating the world from Nazism. But it does not give us Winston Churchill the extremist, the racist, the beast. He is remembered and revered for having preserved our sceptred isle and as one of the greatest of all defenders of democracy - but scholars are now falling over themselves to remind us that he in fact regarded it as a privilege to be conferred exclusively upon the white.

Gary Oldman, rightly Oscar-nominated, could not look less like Winston if he tried. He'd refused the part in the past. Enter the true star of this sinister extravaganza: Japanese make-up artist and prosthetics guru Kazuhiro Tsuji, who distinguished himself on such pieces as 'Planet of the Apes', Dr. Seuss's 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas' and 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button', ageing Brad Pitt's head and face in the most eerie, haunting way. Tsuji was apparently reluctant to take this on. Having spent twenty years in the movie industry, all he wanted was to retire quietly into the altogether more sedate and safe world of fine art sculpture. Fat chance. Oldman, a best friend of David Bowie, who shares more than a few character traits with our greatest-ever rock star, can be all too persuasive when he wants to be. He lured Tsuji back to bone structure and anatomy, back to the precise and fraught regime of sixty sets of facial appliances a day, back, helplessly back into the depths of Winston's jowls. Despite Oldman's heroic portrayal in this not entirely accurate flick, it is Tsuji who triumphs. The Oscar is his.

Wednesday, 17 January 2018


David Jensen’s brave declaration, that he has been suffering from Parkinson's for the past five years, is typical of him. He has done this neither to draw attention to himself, nor to attract pity, but to raise the profile of the debilitating and ultimately fatal disease which affects men more than women, that cut short the career of Michael J. Fox and made a quivering wreck of Muhammad Ali. David's aim is to help to find a cure for it. There were indications that all was not well: he retreated into his family and stopped going out to play. He has made his wife, children and grandchildren his priority, and has quietly got on with life. At the BBC Radio 1 Golden Reunion party in London last October, he seemed on great form. One of the finest broadcasters of his generation, he remains one of the most selfless and best-loved. Our collective tenure at the original incarnation of Vintage TV was as good as it gets. David's sane voice and steadying hand helped to offset the madness (and boy, was there madness). We survived.
Music broadcasting has always depended on a single fundamental ingredient: an inherent love for and understanding of music and musicians. It's that simple, and that complicated. There are many in the game today who will never get the point, selected as they are for their profile in other arenas and 'ability' to put bums on seats - not for their handle on what Keith Richards calls 'life's fourth essential' (after air, food'n'water, and a roof). Few got this as completely as the Kid. Keep going, DJ. X

Monday, 8 January 2018


'The President of the United States is a deranged liar who surrounds himself with sycophants. He is also functionally illiterate and intellectually unsound. He is manifestly unfit for the job. Who knew? Everybody did,' writes Masha Gessen in the New Yorker.
Indeed: the whole world knows that America has been had, and that Trump is a cartoon. So is Michael Wolff, author of the best-selling 'Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House'. Yet his latest book has conquered the New York Times best-seller list, and has been flying out of bookshops faster than they can re-stock it. I haven't read it: I haven't been able to get my hands on a copy. Maybe we think that we have read enough reviews to know the content by heart; to know that this overnight sensation is a poorly-written recycling bin of questionable gossip; a cocktail of old news and sloppy reporting padded with superfluous detail. Someone, I forget who, said that the fact that everybody is talking about it is both illogical and degrading to us all.
Wolff has been denounced by Trump for never having entered the Oval Office, and for not ever having spent three hours interviewing him. A number of individuals who grace the pages of the book now claim to have been misquoted. Writers are used to this kind of thing. Presumably, if Mr Wolff is a professional, he will have recorded every conversation, and will be able to produce back-up transcripts of the interviews upon which he based his work. If not, it is his word against theirs. Has anyone filed a lawsuit?
I experienced some of what Mr Wolff is currently going through when my book 'Hero: David Bowie' was published in hardback just over a year ago. The paperback edition, for reference, is out now. This book is by far my best work, and I stand by every word. I knew David as a child. I became a music writer because of him. I went on the road and wrote about him, because it was all that I wanted to do. Meeting him changed my life. He championed the cause of misfits and kooks like me. He validated us. He gave us the confidence to survive. I reflected all of this in my book, which is part-memoir, part-biography. It's very personal, and not at all an encyclopaedia of his life and music. There are far too many of those. It is my own experience of the man who became the greatest rock star who ever lived. I had the right to write it, and I did.
Just before the book was published, the Rights department at my publishers Hodder & Stoughton offered the book to Fleet Street for serialisation. It went to the highest bidder, the Mail on Sunday. To be clear, the author does not receive the money for serialisations: the publisher does. The newspaper in question is then able to deploy the copy and images as it sees fit. We get neither copy nor picture approval. Quite rightly, as to grant it would compromise the fundamental tenet of journalism. We do not get to vet the headline. We have nothing whatsoever to do with the process, and yet ours is the picture byline that is stamped on the piece. We are therefore held responsible, and are 'to blame'.
The Mail on Sunday bannered its extract 'DID DAVID BOWIE KILL HIMSELF?' Yes, way. Nowhere in the book do I claim this. Nowhere in the book do I even suggest such a thing. I did not go there. Please read it for yourself, and see. In the concluding chapter, Andy Peebles makes respectful passing reference to the sweeping rumours surrounding the 'timing' of David's death - a long-awaited record out on his birthday, 8th January, then he died two days later, on the 10th - but not in any callous or sensational way. He merely mentions them. I merely quote him. No conclusion is drawn. That's it, we move on. But thanks to the Mail on Sunday's headline, I was vilified. Thousands of people who had not read the book but had merely seen the piece, either in the newspaper or online, and jumped to conclusions, rushed to abuse me. I was attacked on social media, particularly on Twitter. Fake reviews damning the book, a book they had not even read, were posted widely. Complaints were written to the paper's editor. I received a string of frightening death threats. High-profile 'Bowie people' were moved to express their contempt for me. No, they hadn't read it either. What could we do about it? Nothing.
Time has a habit of shaking things up. Balance shifts. Reality is restored. Some of those die-hard, devoted Bowie fans eventually got around to reading my book, and saw for themselves that they had made a mistake. A few of them wrote to take back what they'd said. This was gratifying. One well-known friend of David's whom I interviewed at length hit out publicly to say that I had misquoted him, and that he had not made certain statements. I had spent two days at this man's kitchen table. I had recorded every word of our interviews on a reliable device. I had transcribed the material personally. I returned to his home and combed through every word of my printed transcript with him. A few words were deleted at his request, and a couple of statements modified. He signed off every page, with his own pen, in his own handwriting. I was of course able to produce this proof when he later questioned what I had written. His response? That he 'didn't want to talk about it ever again.' But he didn't back down and admit that he was wrong, either. People say that there is no smoke without fire. Oh boy, there so is.
There are few on the planet who knew David Bowie better than his record producer Tony Visconti, a man for whom I have gigantic respect. I interviewed him for my biography of Marc Bolan, 'Ride a White Swan'. He even penned a glowing endorsement for the cover. He declined to be interviewed for 'Hero', and was scathing about the book when it was published. He hadn't read it. I'm sure he still hasn't. He also dumped me on Facebook.
My point being, assumptions are the root of all cock-ups. We can assume all we like about Michael Wolff's book on the Trump administration. We should probably read it. I intend to.

Today would have been David Bowie's seventy-first birthday. Wednesday will be his Anniversary. This is a week to reflect, for Bowie aficionados. He is right here, of course. He hasn't gone far. We still have the music.