Oh George

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

 

 

 

 


Thank you for your smile

Goodbye our sunny, lovely friend. Some people are sent into our lives to remind us to smile, give our love freely and take pleasure in the simple things. Thank you for the joy and the sunshine you brought us, we will miss your beautiful face