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Wednesday, 23 April 2008

Bob's Back History...



A lot of people have been asking if I can tell them a little bit more about myself, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to fill in some biographical detail about my early life and my first forays into the world of show business. So meteoric has my recent ascent been that it's easy to imagine that I've become Britain's foremost glam icon and Burlesque ukulele artiste almost overnight, as if by magic! But my recent success has only been possible because of the years I spent working myself up from the bottom, often going as far as the shoulder blades and - in one incident I'd really much rather forget - the pituitary gland. Yeuu!

My beginnings were nothing if not humble. Born David Robert Jones in Bromley on January 8th, 1947....erm, no - now I'm getting *really* confused... But, seriously folks; I fell from the sky just to the side of Kings Cross station, London, in the early 1970s, an extra-terestrial space pilot from the planet Znapty Gnou III, third star on the left, Andromeda Zone (twinned with Argon-le-Fnootyglimp and Newcastle-Under-Lyme) I had been placed aboard the craft as a very small child, several light years previously in a galaxy far far...you know, all that bollocks, and had spent the long, interplanetary journey in suspended animation, an info-brain splurt continually dripfeeding me the vital knowledge of Earthling history and customs (not to mention the latest from the Nationwide Championship) that would be so vital as I embarked upon my mission to bring back precious water to save my one dying planet. It was also exceedingly good preparation for the M25.

1974: I couldn't really have picked a worse time to land if I'd tried. You humanoids had contrived to make a rotten hash of the economy; the OPEC crisis was in full swing, the three day week was crippling industry and there was nothing decent on the box. Apart from The Persuaders, obviously. Imagine how hard it was in that climate for a confused, sexually ambiguous and vulnerable alienoid, with nothing to barter with but a few scraps of space junk, an enormous pair of stack heeled boots and the patents and plans for the Playstation2 and a blueprint for an entire new nanotechnology undreamed of as yet by even the wildest scientific lunatics... No, with times as hard as they were, there was only one thing for it. So that's how I ended up in Light Entertainment.

It's a cliche repeated far too often, but nonetheless true; there's a dark and sinister underbelly to the world of showbiz very much at odds with the glitter and glamour of its public face. Naive and insecure of my own ability, not to mention far from talented in the first place, I was unfortunate enough to be taken under the wing of an up and coming Armenian impressario of few scruples and even fewer vowel sounds. Ziggy Woodblume was a racially intolerant, self-loathing homosexual paedophile with sociopathic tendencies and a Millwall season ticket. But he was not without his faults either - not least a near-legendary meanness (he liked nothing more than borrowing a meal on a stolen credit card...and then complaining that the food was awful until he was given a *refund*) and an obsession with the late Roy Orbison's intenstinal tract that bordered on the psychotic.

But for all that, he was one fuck of a bullshitter and knew a mug he could screw a few bob out of a mile off. It's a mark of the man and entirely to his credit that, armed with little more than a slowed down tape of Shirley Temple singing 'Nowhere to Run' and several hundred thousand dollars, he was to pull off one of the most incredible coups in the history of popular music when, in 1979, under Ziggy's expert guidance, I became the first white artist to sign for Tamla Motown. You see, by this stage, I was so desperate to find fame and fortune that I was even prepared to paint my face white. But that, you'll be pleased to know, is where any resemblance to Mr. Michael Jackson ends! Apart from the chimp, obviously. And the kiddy fiddling.


Next week: Bob goes head to head with Robert Plant at Knebworth over the last opal fruit in the pack and gets short shrift from the local constabulary when his audacious plan to incinerate Jonathan King and Zandra Rhodes backfires....


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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