Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Hard though this will be for my legion of adoring worshippers to believe, it's a lonely old life being a Glam Icon. Oh sure, there's an almost endless stream of private parties, premieres, weekend retreats to discuss global climate warming with the great and the good. And George W. Bush. An yes, there are the legions of groupies and the hordes of playgirls and the endless lines of well-wishers and under-age teeny boppers offering hand relief on a casual, no strings attached basis now, or guilt-free intercourse the next time in Guildford....but away from the crack of the flash bulb, once the last adoring minion has been patted on the head and despatched to the guest room for a menage a quatorze with the other thirteen stunningly accomodating concubines, the bed feels rather big and empty when you're on your own...
That's how it is though, at the top. You can't have it both ways - and believe me, I've tried. Marriage just didn't suit though - as I'm sure Tony Bastable would concur. We tried, but in the end, neither of us was really cut out for a monogamous relationship based on loyalty and trust in which we only shagged one another and nobody else. Shame, he was *spectacularly* well hung...and very good with filo pastry, it might surprise you to learn. And sadly, the same has proved true of even medium to long-term relationships. Oh, I've given it my best shot with some wonderful ladies who would have made someone a terrific husband (or even a wife), but there's always been that sharp tug at the loins to distract me from my chosen one. How does the song go? "I've had relations with girls from many nations...sexuality, tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-ti tee..." Or something like that...
Yes, the old Swipe little red book could tell a tale or two. Obviously, there's such tremendous interest in my privates that I'd be foolish to give too many of the juicy details here for gratis ahead of the publication of *SHAGGED*!: The lives and loves of a Glam Icon, my salacious kiss and tell autobiography (available from all good bookshops from September. And WH Smiths...) So for now, I'm afraid you'll just have to make do with this little taster; a heavily edited, potted history of my sexual conquests. For the sake of conciseness, I've limited this exctract to those of my former lovers who might reasonably be described as being 'in the public eye'. Oh, and Lily Allen...
One Night Stands:
Twiggy: neurotic toenail clipper. Hates Onions. And Arabs.
Miranda Richardson: bellicose after alcohol. Bi-weekly menstrual cycle (?!)
Caroline Quentin: Flexible. Plymouth Argyle season ticket holder.
Farah Fawcett Majors: feint smell of plywood. Otherwise engaging.
Demis Roussos: Pre - Flippant, post - crying jags.
Angela Rippon: fidgety.
Glenn Close: Hung like a pit pony!
Claire Danes: deceptively vulgar; can burp the word Torremelinos unaided...
Daley Thompson: surprisingly vulnerable. Vegan.
Gloria Hunniford: A dab hand with a ratchet screwdriver. No idea in the sack.
Belinda Carlisle: obsessed with walnuts...
Imelda Marcos: squidgy...
Michael Crawford: haunted.
Kate Winslett: borderline diabetic. Lives on salt & shake....
Gary Rhodes: A connoisseur of the garter belt.
Sherilyn Fenn: card carrying Republican. Disturbing views on eugenics...
Isla St. Clair: vicious and indiscreet purveyor of love bites.
Maddhur Jaffrey: waspish. Has own clamps.
Tanya Beckett: Miss Bossyboots (but not in a good way...)
Paul Nicholas: kleptomaniac.
Paula Abdul: Paula Ab*DULL*
Martha Kearney: pert and wise.
Edna O'Brian: Motormouth. Also talks too much.
Nicholas Soames: Surprisingly naiive for a former rent boy.
Amanda Donohoe: alarming stubble. Legs could do with a shave too...
Sian Williams: only puts out in public libraries...
Disputed paternity suits:
Fearne Cotton ( I would have had to have been 12...)
Mika (has my chin, according to his legal team...)
Jules Wilson (also has my chin, but her mothers thighs and bazoombas...)
Magpie Annual, 1975
Coffee & walnut cakes.
A 2 week old Toblerone
L.U.V. on y'all,