Dear Diary – I’m No Party Animal.

Having said that, it all depends who I “party with” if you know what I’m sayin’.

Anyway, right, this is the thing… everything kinda started a while back when I was on my own after a lovely wank and a forceful spliff (or was it the other way around?) in my gorgeous multi-million-pound house in London. I got my laptop out with one very clever thought in my head: Get someone to help me out with the next. Wank, that is. Spliff too, for that matter. Rollin’ is so fucking boring you’ve no idea. So, I checked my email and of course I googled myself like I do every day to see what I’ve been up to since last time I checked in from my spliff-enduced state. I nearly fell out of bed when I saw that I was apparently hosting some party in our Dallas apartment. That wasn’t even the most shocking part of it. George Bush (which one of’em I dunno) is living next door! I mean, FUCK ME! Who the fuck thought that was a fucking great idea!?

So I called for Kenny. And I literally mean called for. Goddamn it, I said, what have you done this time? He asked what I was referring to. I said I was referring to, a, the goddamn house next to a goddamn Bush and, b, some dinner fucking party in pissing Dallas. Kenny claimed he had told me and I had agreed but I had no recollection of such a thing. “People are paying a lot of money for this,” he said calmly. “Do I LOOK like I FUCKING CARE?” I replied, not quite as calmly. “I don’t know,” he added. “I can’t see you. However, I do have something of an idea what you may look like right now. In bed, your hair to fifteen angles, in the nude, with cleenex on the floor next to the bed, standing on your knees on the mattress with a cute little frown on your forehead.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. He wasn’t wrong. He was annoyingly accurate, in fact. I of course said he was totally wrong, and I was down in the reception room writing lyrics. He said I couldn’t be. I asked why that was, and how he all of a sudden knew everything. “Because I’M in the reception room. Darlin’.” I already knew I had lost. So I said, “Fine, I’ll come to Dallas but I won’t be there for your little party.” He said, “We’ll see.” I didn’t like his smug attidude at all. It usually means he’ll make me do something I don’t wanna do. Like looking at stupid photographs for a fucking stupid-arse competition for some whatever the hell shortly before. I have a feeling that Kenny wants us to move permanently to Dallas. He’s onto me. I don’t like it. I’m NOT moving to fucking Dallas. No.

So, after spending some time in America (after obviously fighting with people at the airport, trying to convince them that I DO have a metal plate in my back and that I’m not smuggling weapons up my backside)(good thing they decided to take my word for it and not check for drugs, that’s all I can say) that darned day finally arrived. Kenny talked to me with added excitement about some Mr Haemisegger and a Massimiliano Giornetti (sounds like a cross between a sextoy and an Italian dish) and said something about the importance of kissing rich people’s arses. I said he could start by kissing mine and he said he’d already done that. “Yes,” I said, “but not in the way I’m referring to.” He didn’t take my point, so I moved him out of the room. “But the guests are here,” he said, somewhat desperately, and I took great pleasure in watching him sweat in anticipation. “Please George,” he pleaded, “David is here.” I folded my arms in front of me and turned around on my heel, grinning broadly to myself as I saw his reaction in the mirror above my head. The reflection of my extremely well-defined belly also made me smirk. I’m so fit right now I’m even turning myself on.

Kenny finally walked downstairs and I could practically hear him sweat as he was trying to please the guests. I packed my jeans, laptop, weed and porn mags. It took all of two minutes to get what I needed into my Prada bag, so I thought I’d have a bit of a wank while I waited for the dinner to move along. I jumped out of my jeans, grabbed hold of… myself and felt the excitement grow (so to speak) as I thought of John Barrowman and his huuuuuuge… personality. I thought of that time I had requested a meeting with him and his even better off boyfriend and they considered it but in the end decided that it wasn’t for them. I imagined what it could have been like, REALLY went for it, I was THIS close, when I opened my eyes and saw – to my absolute horror – a lady in her mid-50s with her mouth wide open. I looked at her, she looked at me, we both desperately tried to think – very quickly – of something to say or do, when I quite literally slipped out of bed and fell down on the floor so hard they must have heard it down the street.

I looked up from behind the bed, eyed my jeans that were on the other side of the room, grinned sheepishly to the lady in front of me and eventually asked if she could – by some terrible chance – throw me my trousers. She didn’t understand what I meant, so I had to ask again and replace ‘trousers’ with ‘pants’. She threw them my way, they landed on the bed, and I had to stand halfway up and crawl halfway across the bed to catch them. I somehow managed to step into them, and she would have seen that I blushed heavily if it hadn’t been for the fake tan I’d applied the day before. I finally stood up, looked at myself in the mirror, secretly annoyed as fuck that I hadn’t even managed to come before I was caught in the act. Not even my MOTHER caught me in the act. It was embarrassing.

“What can I do for you?” I finally asked as I stood up. “Uh,” she replied, “uh. Uh, well, I was, err, I was looking for the bathroom. I think.” I said she was on the wrong floor. “If I may say, Mr Michael, I used to have your poster on my walls when I was younger.” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. “I’m Nancy,” she said and reached out her hand until she realised it PROBABLY wouldn’t be too wise of her to shake it at that moment. Suddenly a guy was standing in the doorway behind her. He wanted to know what was up. “We heard a great big bang from up here,” he said, with a Texan twang. “I’m David,” he said, came over and grabbed my hand before I could even think. “Uh, George,” I said and watched Nancy’s horrified expression mixed with great amusement. They finally left and it was with great disappointment I realised my erection was gone. I couldn’t get it back to life if Johnny Depp had been stark-naked in front of me. (Well, maybe.)

The effect of the spliff had also worn out in about a fourth of a second, and what followed was the munchies. I knew I could possibly get down to the kitchen without being seen. I was so up for ANYTHING to eat at that point, so I tiptoed down the stairs, had a quick look into the dining room, tiptoed further through the hall like some spy on his way through the White House to poison the President. I peaked around the corner of the kitchen, nobody was there, so I entered and grabbed a few bits and pieces from the kitchen bench. I didn’t recognise any of it, but it had to be good for everyone to pay hundreds of dollars for a plate of it. I turned around to walk out when… the same guy came in. “Where’s the wine?” he asked in his broad accent. I pointed to the wine cellar, and thought I was in the clear when he said, “You may wanna…” then touched his own crotch. It was strangely unarousing. I looked at him, took the hint, looked down myself only to realise I hadn’t zipped up my jeans. I thought I could feel a draft, but hadn’t paid any attention to it. At least Mr whatever and his – I presumed – wife had something to discuss over dinner. “Guess what, we went over to George Michael’s place and…”

I decided to forget about the food, get my bag and leave asap. I couldn’t wait to get back to normality in London with my weed, my prostitutes and being able to wank without an audience. I’m never coming back to Dallas. Ever. I wonder when I should tell Kenny I’m selling this one too…?

Love,

George x

Dear Diary – From Russia With…

I was offered an opportunity to earn $5million. For a one-hour performance. That’s $25,000 a minute, right! I mean, fuck! So called my band and asked them if they wanted to come to Russia for an evening. They said sure. When they heard it was New Year’s Eve, they weren’t too thrilled – and truth being told, neither was I. I also realised, soon enough, that it would cost $2million to pull the whole thing off. That’s $3million for me. Or rather, in figures I actually understand, £1.5million. Still not bad for 60 minutes of work.

I sent my band to Heathrow to get on a flight, and as I was on my way to Luton to my private jet I got to thinkin’. Who are these people that can afford to hire me just like that? I mean… what could I expect? “Greetings, Putin!”? Would I be able to get in and out without getting poisoned, radioactive or shot? So I decided to not talk. People outside of England and America don’t understand English anyway, so I decided to let the music do the talking. Then I thought, What songs am I going to do to prevent the above? No sexually explicit lyrics, surely. No swearing. No gay songs, just in case… Once it occurred to me that I was practically left with “Careless Whisper” and “Last Christmas” by doing this elimination, I had to do some re-thinking. If they don’t understand English in Russia, they won’t be upset by some gay/sex references. If I just shut my mouth, they’ll just enjoy the beat and my voice. Maybe leave out “My Mother Had A Brother” though – just in case. Possibly also “Shoot The Dog”. Though I really wanted to use the Bush doll – after all, Russia doesn’t like the Bush man either, but they may not get the joke and decide to stone me.

When I arrived at the hotel I was still undecided. My band wouldn’t arrive until the next day, so I had enough time to think. But I wasn’t happy about the hotel at all. It didn’t have the right vibe. So I changed hotels, they shouted something in Russian – really loudly – so I covered my mouth and ran out of there as soon as humanly possible to prevent any fumes they may have thrown after me to fuck with my voice. After all, once I was there, it would be a shame to have to cancel, ifyouknowwhatImean! I finally settled into a high-class hotel (I didn’t even know they had those there), had a wank, a spliff in the bathroom and fell asleep. Not in the bathroom, obviously.

The morning after I got a call from someone down in reception with a very heavy Russian accent. I understood what he said, but barely. I called my bodyguard and asked him to come with me to meet this fella. You never know. Down in reception was a male in his 50s, rather hot if I may say so myself, holding a briefcase. I walked over to shake his hand, then changed my mind in case he had Anthrax on him or something. He wasn’t interested in any close contact either, it seemed, and we all went over to a free table in the hotel bar. I didn’t order anything. In fact, I hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink that was Russian-made since I got there. You can never be too careful. The guy said his name, asked if I was “the zinger” and I confirmed that I was. He threw the briefcase on the table, mumbled something about “all there”, said it was from “Mr Potanin” (just HOW close is that to PUTIN!?), got up, turned on his heel and was gone.

I didn’t know what the fuck to do. What would be in there? Poison? A bomb? The whole thing was a really bad idea. So we decided to get the guy at reception to open it. We quickly ran across the room to the entrance as the receptionist opened it. For a moment he just stared at it, stared at us, back at the content of the briefcase. Then he waved us over. We looked at each other, feeling a bit like being in a James Bond movie, and the feeling got even stronger when he turned the case around and we were met with… cash. Five million fucking dollars in CASH! I quickly closed it, hoped nobody had seen it, basically knew I’d get robbed if anyone had, and ran upstairs, clutching the black case against my chest. Now what?

Up in the room I looked around for a safe, but there wasn’t one. I couldn’t throw it in the hotel safe either, cause everybody knew what it was by now. So I decided to change hotels again. Ironically we went back to the first hotel, as that’s where my band was, so I felt safer, knowing they couldn’t possibly wipe out the whole lot of us. That hotel didn’t have a safe in the room either, so I assigned my bodyguard to guard it with his life. I decided against paying everyone in cash for their efforts. All this money flying around made me highly uncomfortable. So much so that I arrived at the assigned venue an hour late, still keeping an eye on my bodyguard that had his eye (and his wrist handcuffed to) the briefcase.

They had other types of entertainment as well, so I wasn’t missed. For instance, a talking parrot(!) had the slot before me, which seemed to be a big hit. I was actually a bit nervous about following it. What if they didn’t like me as much? I peaked out from behind the curtain and saw about 300 people sitting there, all dressed up, excessively drunk already – expecting me to, I suppose, put on a $5million show. So I did. I replaced some of the more hardcord words with, say, softer versions of them. They refused to sing along, but it’s in my blood to say “EVERYONE!”, “COME ON!”, “SING TO ME” and so forth. I couldn’t help it. Nobody sang a fucking note. It was like being back in fucking Oslo again. What a group of deadwoods. Both in Norway and Russia. The colder it gets, the colder the people get, I suppose. I didn’t see Putin anywhere – but then again, I wouldn’t know what the fuck he looked like if he threw a bomb at me. I used playback for a couple of the songs (I’d even hired a stand-in just in case I got too nervous) but did at least half the set live. In the end I smiled broadly, took the applause and got the hell outta there.

I was getting really hungry, so we went to a restaurant afterwards. I didn’t dare eating anything and insisted on opening the bottle of red wine myself (I’ve done good this year, so I deserve some red!) at the table – and just when I was about to settle in a bunch of, I guess, fans came over and started taking pictures. I SO wasn’t in the mood for that, so I asked the staff to kindly remove them. Then I felt kinda bad, but by the time I’d made up my mind to let them take their fucking pictures anyway, they were long gone. Probably executed somewhere in the basement for all I know.

After much consideration, we decided to fly home that same evening. It made me excessively nervous to be in Russia, so I left the staff behind to take their flight the morning after. Up in the air – after the most extensive security check known to man (you could say a briefcase with $5million caused a bit of a stir) – I started relaxing. However, somewhere above the Finnish mountains I received a phone call. As it turns out, all my goddamn fucking £15million worth of equipment and stage setup had burned! BURNED! How it happened I do not fucking know, but what I’m going to do about the American leg of the tour now is uncertain. It was a good thing I got the hell outta there when I did, otherwise I could have found myself in the middle of a fire drama. A fire that was probably designed for me.

I’m SO never going back there. Fucking hell.

George – with love.

Dear Diary – PervyHotelChats.com

Up in Manchester I had to spend a night at a hotel. I arrived at our booked hotel, only to realise that my room had no windows that could be opened, it didn’t have a balcony either – I mean, fucking hell, where am I supposed to smoke? On the pavement? I don’t think so. Kenny liked it, so I let him stay behind. Besides, he saw a guy in the lobby that he thought he recognised from TV that he’d like to pull. I excused myself, got back in the car and was driven across town to another hotel that actually had windows and a balcony outside the room. Nevermind that it’s zero degrees, windy and grotty (this is Manchester for you) – I need my herbal cigarettes without being bothered.

So, after the gig I had a smoke or two, wandered down to the lobby to see if anything tasty wanted to be ravaged by George Michael. With my luck – it’s great being gay these days, especially if you’re me – a cutie was already eyeing me when I came down. I think I saw him at the gig. How he found me I’ve no idea – but I like persistence. I went over to him and said, “Hi. Up for it?” and he said “Your room or mine?” Being gay is ace. Had this been a woman I’d have gotten a slap across the face. I took him to my room, we did our thing and instead of kicking him out as I usually do, we started talking.

He was my age and exceptionally intelligent. Almost more intelligent than me. We didn’t waste any time having an intelligent conversation, however. Instead we were discussing – well – sex. What worked, what didn’t work, what was enjoyable, what was a waste of time, what was awesome, what was boring etc. It started out somewhat innocent, until an hour later words, phrases, bodyparts and adjectives bounced back and forth between us like a ping-pong ball. In the end he started laughing and said:

“This must be such a hilarious conversation to listen in to!”

And I said: “Yeah, I suppose! What do you reckon people would pay to listen?”

And he said: “Oh, this’ll probably end up at PervyHotelChats.com”

At this point we were so turned on by our own dirty mouths that we had to have another shag – but even after round two I wasn’t falling asleep. PervyHotelChats.com? I thought what if it exists? What if I’m on there? It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had a pervy chat at a hotel, staff know where I’m staying, they could easily bug the hotel room. Even though I came here by chance, they’ve still had some hours to prepare when I was at MEN. Shit.

So I got up, started up my laptop and logged onto the wireless network. I typed it in. The wireless was slow. It was searching, I was sweating, my paranoia played tricks on me and I was half-expecting to find my own little section. “George Michael”, “Pete Doherty”, “Everyone Else”. Then the site came up. “Firefox can’t find the server at www.pervyhotelchats.com”. It doesn’t exist. Phew.

Thankfully still trusting hotels.

George x

Dear Diary – I spoke to Andrew

This is the thing. I’ve said – in public – many times now that I want Andrew to join me onstage for “Last Christmas” at Wembley on the 17th. Or 15th. I don’t know yet. Whatever. I did this because I thought Andrew may have read about it and given me a call about it – but no. I should have known better than to think Andrew would let an opportunity to make me beg pass him by.

I generally never beg, but I eventually jumped to the conclusion that I was almost ready to do it today. After a fantastic ego-wank up in Manchester, I felt on an amazing high, woke up at three in the afternoon and thought, “Today, George, you will pick up the phone and call Andrew.” So I fired up a spliff, dialled his number and waited. The conversation went something like this;

Andrew: The Ridgeley residence, Andrew speaking!

Me: Hi Andrew. George here. How are you?

Andrew: George, huh? Have you got a question for me?

I could practically hear him grin through the phone. He was enjoying the whole situation too much. 

Me: I do. What have you got planned for December?

Andrew: Oh, you know, he teased. – This and that, you know I need to be booked far in advance these days, with all the offers I get.

At this point I was gritting my teeth.

Me: I know you don’t like the public and the business and you swore it would never happen again after Rock in Rio in ‘91, but I’m getting ready to round off my first tour for fifteen years – the first doing my own material for eighteen – and as it’s 25 years since we started out together, I thought maybe we could round off together too. You know, with you joining me onstage for “Last Christmas” at Wembley on the 17th of December, for instance.

There was a long silence.

Andrew: It’s 24 years, George.

Me: What?

Andrew: It’s 24 years since 1982, not 25.

I did a quick count, and by George, he’s right. Shit. How embarrassing.

Me: It’ll be like the old days, I added, pretending the past 20 seconds hadn’t taken place. – I’ll sing, you’ll pretend to play… I mean, you’ll play the guitar and pretend to si… I mean, sing backing vocals and stuff. Don’t you remember, Andrew? We were every little hungry school girl’s pride and joy? And we had such a kick, didn’t we, buddy?

Andrew: Your pitch kinda sucks, mate, he laughed. – I’ll think about it and call you tomorrow.

So that was embarrassing. I couldn’t even go online and pick up a casual fuck today. Fingers crossed.  

Nervously,

George x 

Dear Diary – My CV

I was wondering, right, what my curriculum vitae would look like if I decided to do – say – apply for a position in someone else’s band. Or whatever.

It’s not like I’ve ever actually had to write a CV before, so bear with me; Here is my first attempt.

I wonder if I’d get hired.

Love,
George

 

George Michael – Curriculum Vitae

 

Highlights

• A successful, bilingual (English/Greek/French) entertainer specialising in soulful Pop/Rock Music

• Duets with nationally and internationally recognised musicians like Elton John, Aretha Franklin, Smokey Robinson, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Whitney Houston, Tony Bennett and Paul Young released variously around the world

• Producer and engineer as well as ability to play the piano, drums, bass and guitar

• Exclusive opportunity to work with James Bond musician David Arnold for last ever album, Patience (unless you could Twenty Five)

• First white dude to duet with soul legend Aretha Franklin

• Released only album in history to spawn six top three singles; Older

• Fronted Queen and hailed as the most successful performance at the Freddie Mercury Tribute. Later offered role of vocalist in Queen
  

• Moved permanently to Highgate, London, in June 2004 to pursue outlandish lifestyle

 

Employment

1987 – present George Michael – The Solo Enterprise
Songwriter, vocalist, producer, engineer, wanker, enthusiastic follower of modern chemistry, creating outstanding lyrics.

1982 - 1986 Wham!
Songwriter and lead vocalist. Also played various instruments, did producing, engineering and similar.

1979 – 1981 The Executive
Freelance drum and bass player.

 

Portfolio

A selection of albums from my portfolio are available on www.georgemichael.com The available albums are:

• Fantastic
• Make It Big
• Music From The Edge of Heaven
• Wham! The Final
• Greatest Hits of Wham!
• Faith
• Listen Without Prejudice Vol. I
• Five Live
• Older
• Ladies and Gentlemen, The Best of George Michael
• Songs From The Last Century
• Patience
• Twenty Five

Personal Details

Email: george@georgemichael.com
Telephone: 0800-HUNK
Nationality: English/Greek
Date of Birth: 25 June 1963

 

Personal recommendations vouching for my ability and integrity as a musician available on request from: Elton John; Stevie Wonder; Aretha Franklin; Smokey Robinson; and Tony Bennett.

Dear Diary – Julio’s Whisper

I’m appalled. I’m horrified. I can’t believe it.

I taped Jonathan Ross on my Sky Box yesterday – as I had other things to do last night, without going into details – and decided to watch it back this afternoon. Jack Black, Julio Iglesias, Ben Affleck. Interesting enough guests. I was kind of paying attention as I was surfing for porn replying to some emails on my laptop, then Julio came on and I tried paying attention to what he said but as his accent is sorta thick, I had trouble. And to be honest I wasn’t that interested in what he had to say.

So, Alex had just brought me a gorgeous moccha frappucchino from Starbucks, I was sucking along (ahem) and suddenly I hear, “I’m never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm…” I looked up quicker than if someone had said “Quick, Colin Farrell naked!” and spewed out the sip I’d just taken of my chilled coffee out onto my laptop screen. It was Julio fucking Iglesias singing my fucking song! The song that I wrote in 1980 when I was 17 years old. Seventeen! Julio is like… older. Than me, even! “Careless Whisper” with an accent is even worse than “Careless Whisper” with Smokey Robinson (sorry Smokey – but you should have been put behind bars for musical murder that night!). Good lord… 

Hear a clip of it here.

I thought, “I’m speechless. I’m… I’m… I’m… I’m without words. There should be rules and regulations against this sort of stuff. The worst thing is, someone gave the go-ahead to put this on an album. Surely it wasn’t me?” Then Julio said some really nice things about me and my “masterpiece” and suddenly I felt a bit bad for thinking such things – but in reality, it sounded like… something I wouldn’t do. Unless I was seventeen again, in which case I’d probably do it. Though without the accent. And with knowledge of how to perform the song properly without making it sound like something off the soundtrack of “Blind Date”. 

George – still in shock

Dear Diary – This Knobby Chick

Right, this is the thing.

I’ve met Knobby. We have a history. A long time ago, but she knows who I am, I know who she is, we exchanged sarcasms about three years ago. It stopped, suddenly, after I agreed to an interview, set it up, and my manager behaved like a bit of a twat and put an end to that. And everything else. I apologised on his behalf, thought things were OK between us, but never saw her again.

To be honest, I didn’t care much. I hardly even noticed, to be honest. What I did notice, however, was that the spewing of acid sarcasm was gone from my forum. Six months later I shut it down – for reasons totally unrelated to this. I used to read the comments, amongst many others, and though I didn’t exactly miss them I took notice. Then the times of blogs came. I found Knobby’s blog. Read it when I thought Kenny wasn’t looking – until I caught him doing the same and we started reading it together.

What’s this with Kevin Spacey anyway? Is he more interesting than me? Surely not. He’s not an intelligent as me either, and Tony Blair seems to like him (bitch). Bill Clinton too. There’s been a lot about Kevin Spacey on Knobby’s blog. Even in the middle of my scandals, when I should be getting all the attention, there’s a Kevin Spacey post. What’s he got to do with anything? I don’t care about him, and yet I know more about him than I care to – just in case there’s a mention of me in the Kevin Spacey posts. There seldom is, but I’ve noticed some comparisons. Like he does more things than I do. I couldn’t have that – so I decided to go on tour. That should show’em. He’s doing a play for 3 months, I’m doing a tour for 3 months. Same thing! Now leave me alone.

Kenny suggests that I’m obsessing over this matter, but I do feel that because the Knobby character was first dedicated to me, focus should stay on me. Jesus. Come on, honestly, I may not do professional stuff all the time, but you can’t say it’s ever boring being a fan of mine. How many times haven’t I had my fans going into a frenzy this year alone? Newspaper headlines, releasing songs to the radio without telling anyone, springing a tour on them just like that – where’s my appreciation?

It’s especially during rants like this that Kenny looks at me and says, “George. Darling. It don’t matter, dude.” But it does. I feel deprived. I do get like 70% of the attention on Knobby’s Blog, but where’s the other 30%? Kevin Spacey, other people and topics that’s got nothing to do with George Michael. I ask myself, I really do, “How can it be!?” So I decided to go public and say – as Knobby’s Blog has said for years – “Talk less and sing more.” Now if I do that, shut up and sing, will that earn me the other 30% as well? Or do I have to switch to Remarkable’s Blog instead? I don’t understand what the fuck he means most of the time, but I’ll go there just to spite the Knob. Give 30% of my attention to someone else – give a feel of what that feels like. Hah!

George – heading over to Knobby’s.

Dear Diary – Ouch

I’ve been kinda busy touring and singing and shagging random strangers on street corners lately to do a diary entry, but I gotta tell you something, now that I’ve gotten over the initial shocking pain.

Waxing one’s chest. I’m hairy, OK, and that’s been fine for a long time, but now that I’m a) really fit and b) touring, I felt I needed a change. It’s easier to wipe a clean slate free of sweat than having to blowdry a furry bush between each song, I tell ya that. So I got into this beauty place and I got a little Japanese chick that was barely twenty to do it. She asked me to take my shirt off, and went “ooh. You hairy!” and I said “What did you expect?” She asked me to lay down on a table, took out this little scissor and started clipping me down like a sheep in the places where the hair was too long. This is cause we tried to just put the strips of wax on, but it wouldn’t take.

So, first wax strip on, she said “It will only hurt for second” and I was thinking “OK, a second I can do.” She counted to three, ripped it off and suddenly it dawned on me just how accurate the reaction in “40 Year Old Virgin” was when he got his chest waxed. Oh-holy-mother-of-God, the pain spread like fire in dry grass and I released the most obscene swear-phrase you can imagine. I didn’t even know I could fit that many words into one breath. So I asked “Is this the least painful you have, cause it’s kinda unbearable, considering I have about an acre of hair that needs to be taken care of.” She said for ten quid more, they had a less painful hot wax – but they were currently out of that. Brilliant.

At this point I was just thrilled. I had a flaming red stripe of skin in between my nipples and asked in horror just how many more it would take. When she said “maybe thirty” I nearly fainted. So I said, “How about you shave it first and then wax it?” and she said “Then no hair to pull out”. So couldn’t do that either. An hour, thirty-seven strips – and being hoarse from screaming – later, I was feeling numb all over. Not to mention that I looked like a lobster between my shoulders and belt buckle. She had to go over certain areas more than once in the chest area (which brought me to tears – literally). When done, she said it would be red for “couple hours” then be fine.

This was at 2pm and by that evening I had a mass of red spots on my chest. So I applied some oil-free moisturiser to it, hoping it would soothe. I couldn’t go out cruising looking like that, so I went to bed kinda early and woke up the following morning looking like a plucked chicken. The spots were still flaming red with little white dots on them, like that you see on – well – a newly plucked chicken. I wasn’t happy at all, called the salon and they said I may have had a reaction to the wax or the tea-tree oil they put on afterwards. What to do? Put some ice on it. So I did.

Three days later the redness was gone, but I still had the chicken-look, and that was the day of the Barcelona gig so I had to go onstage looking like that. To my dismay the hairs were starting to come back, but there was no way I was going to do the waxing thing again in a hurry. Since, I’ve stuck to the old fashioned way; razor and foam. Twice a day. Like I used to have to do when I was clean-shaven. God bless the existence of razors. Really.

George – the plucked rooster

Dear Diary – If Only

Sigh.

Right, I’m quite intrigued, I must admit. If my life was anywhere as dramatic and interesting as the press makes it out to be, I’d be exhausted by now. This week alone I’ve been an alcoholic, a drug addict, narcoleptic and comatose – in addition to the usual liar, cheat and bad driver, of course. Wow. This is not bad even by my standards.

What’s the truth? The truth? The actuality, reality, sincerity, integrity, accuracy, correctness, exactitude, fidelity, veraciousness, veracity, TRUTH…!? I once sang, “I’ve no memory of truth” but that’s more to do with when I said what and when I said it – I do remember what happened hours/days/weeks ago. I had a spliff in the car. Big fucking deal. I was tired. It was three-thirty am for heaven’s sake. Was I comatose? Please. Would I be onstage the next day if I’d been seriously ill? Would I look like this [points to own impressively fit body] if I wasn’t well? I’ve never looked better, what’s wrong with ya?

I know what it is. I’ve seen these people. They’re unattractive, balding and overweight. I’m none of the above, however they tried to make out that I was. The balding incident was quite amusing. Good photoshop work, whoever it was. I have a full head of hair, thank you very much. I’m not overweight by anyone’s standards. Look at me, I look better now than when I was in my teens and twenties! If I could, I’d do myself! That’s how good I look. So fuck you all.

Anyway, looking forward to my Milan gigs. Buona sera di Milano.

George – the troubled star. x

Dear Diary – Survived Week One

Right.

Well, I’m home. Came home last night after the gig in France and going back to Lyon tomorrow. As of today, four down, 43 to go. Fuck-me, really? That’s another… eleven weeks. An average of four shows a week. Blimey. Weeeell, at least I have a private jet. I’ve no idea where my crew is, but they’re not here. Thank fuck.

I went online tonight with my regular nickname and as usual I got a whole shitload of replies, right, and as usual most die down but one or two keep it up. I was feeling particularly dirty, and said “how d’ya want me to do you?” and one went into this elaborate description that was a bit too romantic for me, so I ignored him. This other guy, on the other hand, said “I want u 2 bend me over & do me hard, big boy”. I immediately warmed to him (I mean, shit, BIG!) and I said “and what would you do to me?” and he said… actually I can’t say what he said cause it was a bit X-rated but it sounded divine. So I got really really excited and he then asked “what u doin’?” and I said “nothin’” and he said “me too”. So we were both doing……….nothing, right, and then he asked “How big r u?” and I said “HUGE!” and he said “Cool. I love’em big. My b/f ain’t that impressive.” I asked if his boyfriend knew about him doing this online and he said “He does it 2 – wanna meet?” And I agreed.

So I got out of my bedroom and ran into Kenny on the way down the stairs (I didn’t even know he was here). As we were both heading out the front door I asked where he was going. He said nowhere. He asked where I was going. I said nowhere. We got in our cars and sped off in different directions. I was getting excited, was looking forward to some great sex, when I pulled up by Hampstead Heath and saw a BMW there. Similar to ours. I crashed the engine as I saw that, in fact, it WAS ours! Kenny stepped out and nearly passed out. He looked at me in horror, and knew I wasn’t happy.

Am currently offended and not talking to Kenny. The sizeist muppet.

George – the bigger man.