In 1986 I was living in London and I had a flatmate who modelled her hair on George Michael’s fluffy bouffy do. She scored tickets to see Wham at Wembley Stadium that summer. I didn’t speak to her for a while because she went to the gig and I didn’t. It was never about Andrew, it was always about George. I loved George but I was too afraid to admit it. For a while there it wasn’t cool to like George Michael’s music, it wasn’t grungey or dark or rock enough. I’ve never liked cool obscure underground bands that nobody has heard of, with male singers who can’t hold a tune, I’m a huge fan of bright, shiny commercial pop. So George was the shiz.
I love George’s lyrics, I love his melodies and his voice. When I was 14, he wrote songs in the key of teenage angst. George understood me and my worries. Christmas doesn’t begin for me until I hear Last Christmas on the radio.
I can’t believe he’s gone at the age of 53. In the 90s his music kept my heart alive. I hope the dope didn’t kill him.
“Do you enjoy what you do? If not, just stop, don’t stay there and rot.”
Thank you George, I hope you’re blazing a trail with some gorgeous angelic backing vocalists in heaven
Here I am on the day of the race that stops a nation, dressed in jodhpurs and a top hat, hamming it up for drunk people, most of whom don’t realise this how I earn my living (they just think I’m some kind of kooky lady), as they slam down their drinks. We humans are very strange, we tame wild creatures, then watch them going round and round a track. When I was a young warthog, I went to the races most weekends with my grandpa Aubrey, who was nuts about betting on the gee gees. He would place small bets for me and I always picked the grey horses, probably because of Gunsynd, the Goondiwindi grey, a famous racehorse from the 1970s. Now I’m getting paid to act like a goose on a horse, my grandpa would be so proud.