Dear Diary – Everything is big in Texas (yeah-ha!)

Found old entry from 1996

Dear Diary,

I cannot believe it. Honestly, the bloke I just met has got to be the most attractive, most fit looking Texan geezer I’ve ever laid eyes on. This friend of mine, right, he was saying, “D’ya wanna meet this pal of mine?” and I was really thinking, “Not really” but then he pointed towards this blond, fit, handsome guy that I had been secretly eyeing up half an hour earlier.

He came over, right, and beamed the most heartfelt smile, leaving me weak at the knees. We were left alone, he didn’t stop smiling, introduced himself as Kenny and I tell ya, by the end of it he could easily have sold me my own knickers. And I don’t even use knickers! He didn’t seem to have any idea who I was, because he held my hand and asked in a soft Texan accent, “What’s your name?”

I think I said “George” but who the hell knows. I was totally fascinated with his eyes, it was like looking into the eyes of a tiger, it’s amazing. (Hmmm… Amazing. Note to self: Keep as possible song title for future.) All of a sudden I heard, “Do you fancy going out for dinner tomorrow?” coming out of my mouth and thankfully he said, “Yes, of course.”

I came home, had a wank (as you do) and started pondering if he was really gay or not. True, he was incredibly tanned for this time of year, so much so he looked like he’d got a subscription for access to sunbeds all year round (is that a straight thing to do?)(I did it when I was pretending to be straight…)(but that was the 80’s)(and it WAS pretend…)(anyway!) , he was incredibly fit (have not yet seen straight man with visuable abdominal muscles)(and could easily see his through his white T-shirt!) but…

So I kept up the ‘is he, is he not’ train of thoughts, he showed up for the date wearing a blue/greenish (possibly?) shirt that looked great on him, we had a great meal, I still wasn’t sure because he didn’t make any obvious attempts in my direction. Unless you count him constantly brushing my hand with his and staring straight at me for three hours. I tried to subtly suggest ‘fancy a f***’, but he said goodnight and hugged me farewell. He did agree to a second meeting though.

In preparation for our second date(?) I trimmed my chest, head and beard; plucked my shoulders and eyebrows; booked an appointment for drive-through teeth bleaching; called around to get ego rubbed by number of friends and was eventually ready. Again he was wonderfully attentive and handsome and gorgeous and fit and irresistible and I wasn’t about to let him go this time. So I said, “Wannu come back to mine?” and he said, “Sure, George” () and just as he said it I was so pleased I didn’t see where I was going and stumbled down a set of stairs and tore a ligament.

Kenny seemed concerned. Said we could do a it another day and that I should see a doctor. I said, through my tears, that I was perfectly fine and didn’t need a doctor. At that point I didn’t give a toss, cause I was so up for shagging him that nothing else mattered. He helped me into a taxi, didn’t say much, I don’t know why he wasn’t his usual chatterbox, but I was in such pain I didn’t know what to do with myself. As we reached the house, he helped me out – ah, gentleman – and I hadn’t even limped inside before he was all over me and was literally in my pants before I had a chance to take my shoes off.

By the time he left that morning I was pretty damn sure he was gay, which was a huge plus. My horny cowboy with his Texan smile.

Stay tuned

George xx

PS: Everything is big in Texas!

Dear Diary – note to self: Don’t wank in public

Found an old entry from 1998

Dear Diary,

Today was a peculiar one. I was out and about, right, Kenny was at work and I was trying not to kill myself with a cheese grater out of boredom. I took the car down to Beverly Hills and thought I’d have a stroll in Will Rogers Memorial Park. It’s got some brilliantly clean toilets that are directly opposite the Beverly Hills Hotel. A very classy restroom indeed!

I put on my cap and my sunglasses and walked casually around for a bit, nicking a sip or ten from some hobo’s booze. Cannot really tell what it was. Covered with brown plastic bag and such. (All very American movie, innit!) Whatever it was, it went straight to my head and soon enough I felt there was time to head towards the restroom for obvious reasons.

As I was standing there at the urinal, inspecting Elton John’s autograph on the wall, this bloke came in. He was fairly good looking, well over six feet, dark. I did my much practiced eyebrow lift so check out if he was eyeing me up or not, and surely enough he was. Not only that, he zipped down his jeans slowly and yanked out his, uh, important equipment. It was like Christmas and New Year’s at the same time, we’re talking fairly well off here *grin* Anyway.

He indicated action, so I turned and flashed him, at which point he wrapped it up and walked past me and out. Confused and embarrassed – assuming he wasn’t impressed – I did the same and went outside, looking for someone else who could possibly release a bit of the tension that was admittedly building up slightly. I didn’t get too far before Mr Handsome cuffed me and another guy started reading me my rights. Once the arsehole realised who I was, he looked absolutely scared s***less. I told him what a great job I thought he had. (I was joking!)

Anyway, I found myself in the back of a police car, being driven 20 seconds down the road (all of a sudden I realised my master plan was not as great as previously anticipated) and was stripped of my belt (what did they think I’d do, hang myself in my cell?)(or spank myself with it?), had prints taken, mugshot, the works. I of course had to make sure I didn’t smile at the handsome man behind the camera, as this is clearly not a publicity photo even though it has a similar flash.

Disappointingly I was put in a single cell, as nobody else had been arrested that afternoon. My typical luck that no good looking, muscly men were there for the same reason as me, cause surely we could have helped each other out. As you do. I thought I was seeing things when I saw the National Enquirer on the table and sniggered, “I’m gonna be on the cover of this next week…” But then I thought, “Hold on, nobody else has been arrested this afternoon, so you never know, maybe it won’t get out!”

I was allowed my phonecall and pondered for a second how to break the good news to Kenny. True, we’re in an open relationship and all that, but it’s one thing shagging someone else, but getting arrested for it is a whole different matter. I called and he wasn’t there. I was allowed another call, and he still wasn’t in, so I had to leave a message on the answering machine saying, “Uh… I’m down the policestation… can you come and get me, please?”

He eventually called back and asked, “Darlin’, what did you do?” I said, “Take a guess.” He suggested, “DUI?” I said, “F***, if only. Guess again.” He said, “Oh, no…” and I said, “Can you come and get me, please?” Which he did, bless him. After signing a couple of autographs, we were on our way home. I still thought it was possible it wouldn’t get out. After all, who was going to tell, right!

OK, so I was wrong about that one. Four hours later I had helicopters flying over my roof and hundreds of people in the street, awaiting – and I’m only guessing here – a reconstruction. Then I thought, “Will I do a Hugh Grant and hide behind my net curtains and be ashamed?” and then thought, “No, I have nothing to be ashamed of! I’m a gay man, goddamn it! When men pick each other up, they show each other their d***s. It’s the way it works.” So we went for a meal at my local restaurant, and it was almost like the old days, being a head-turner and cars driving across red lights.

Eventually back home I made up my mind. I should be open and honest. I’m out, I’m about, I’m gay, I am what I am. Indeedy! I should go on CNN or something. Spill it all. But better not let the, in particular, female fans know that “Faith” was really about a woman AND a man. I’ll deal with that later. Around the time of my next original album or something

George xx

Dear Diary – Scissor Wot?

This morning I switched on the radio and heard a 70’s song by Elton I couldn’t recall having heard before. The lyrics were something like, “All the girls they seem to like you cause you’re handsome” and “your house has got an empty bed”.

I started getting confused. I’ve listened to Elton’s music for f***ing decades, I have all his albums, at least all from the 70’s, or so I thought! It became quite clear I hadn’t heard this song!

It went on with “we’ll get her jacked up on some cheap champagne, we’ll let the good times all roll out and if the music ain’t good, well it’s just too bad, we’re gonna sing along no matter what” and confusion was complete. I started looking through my Elton albums. Nothing of the kind. I searched my brain. The sound was definitely Elton, the vocal was definitely Elton, the lyrics somehow didn’t sound like Bernie, though.

I was rocking wildly to this track, secretly missing the hell outta the good old days when I would get the latest Elton album on the day or release, skip school and listen to it with an incredible excitement flowing through my young body. (Hmmm!) He was so GOOD back then, so much energy, attitude, his voice reaching levels he couldn’t even dream of now.

Hearing this song again (surely it had to be “again”?!) brought it all back, and I was listening eagerly towards the end to hear Neil announce the name of the track. I took to jumping up and down, nearly unable to contain myself, when I heard, “Now to the news!” and released a screeching noise. F***ing tossy w***head arseknob s***bag c***! I could not BELIEVE they cut straight to the news without naming the sodding track!

So I called Foxy up, had a bit of trouble getting through, being given a bit of an attitude from the switchboard lady saying, “Yeah, of course you’re George Michael. Pffft!” I had to sing the chorus to “Careless F***ing Whisper” to get through, and eventually I got Foxy on the line.
I said, “What was that Elton track you played earlier?”
He said, “What Elton track?”
I said, “You know, the one before the news.”
He said, “We didn’t play Elton before the news.”
I said, “Of course you did, I heard it myself!”
He said, “I swear we didn’t.”
I said, “What the hell did you play before the news then?”
And he said, “We played Scissor Sisters.”
I said, “I don’t believe you.”

He played me the track again and I had to eventually agree. The bloke sounds exactly like soddin’ Elton! I betcha Elton woke up one morning, got the radio on and wondered, “When the hell did I do that one?”

Material well stolen. And he’s kinda cute

George x

Dear Elton – Listen, dude…

Elton, mate, listen, I know we haven’t spoken that often lately, and I still apologize for spilling tea on your backup wig, but I’m writing this email to ask you a big favour.

Yeah?

Okay, the thing is, Elt, they’re going to release the Live Aid DVD in a bit, and as you know, and as we’ve talked about a great many times, I sing out of tune for the first verse of “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me” and – as you know – this was because my nerves never really let go backstage as they usuall do, and it’s been 20 years and I really believe that people, ordinary people, as well as my fans, have eventually got over that. So why remind them, I say!

Like we have also discussed before, I have done this previously, pulled my performances out of releases and broadcasts, and fans have not been pleased, but hey, if it’s not perfect, don’t share it, is my opinion! I know you like the song, I like it too, hell I’ve done it live half a million times with and without your help, mate, but I’m sure you can see where I’m coming from and what I’m asking you to do.

It’s not like it matters to you, does it, cause you release this stuff all the time and people see you live all the time, and don’t get me wrong Elton, you know I love your stuff, man, but how about you do this little thing for me and take your set out. It’s not like it was that memorable anyway, and your fans can get other things, but I’m afraid mine are so deprived of live footage with me in it that they will run out on the first opportunity handy to get hold of this. Surely VCR’s were not invented in 1985?

I’ll do whatever you want. Yes, even that. (I wish I could say, as Meat Loaf, “…but I won’t do that”, but I will, Elt, I promise) (And this is not like the promise I made when I asked you to redo the 1993 version of “Don’t Let…” for the single release, really it’s not.)

Thanks a lot, mate!

George x

Dear Diary – The Olympics and stuff

George here! You know, gay popstar, 41 years of age, had massive hit with Careless Whisper about nothing personal in 1984 and have in later years enjoyed casual sexual intercourse with a number of nice, friendly guys with big knobs while pursuing an emotionally monogamous relationship with Kenny based on total honesty.

There, introductions over. This morning one of my very new friends came by with three of his muscly buddies just when I was re-writing One More Try for the Olympics. To fit with the theme of the day and make sure everybody knows it’s okay if they don’t win this year because they can always give it one more try (geddit?) next year. So right in the middle of that this convoy of humpy looking male flesh shows up. I don’t know, but I think something or someone is trying to stop me from finishing this song, and I tell ya, I will not be stopped by anything or anyone.

Well, maybe besides a bunch of hunks.

I thought to myself… I should sod the Olympics, really. They probably can’t get the sound right or they’ll screw up the syncronizing or even worse: they’ll insist on filming my bad side. I can’t let that happen, for reasons I can’t possibly let you in on, dear diary. Besides, I can’t cancel a live broadcast. Imagine that!

I don’t think Lionel Richie knows he’s not opening the Olympics yet. Saw him on some show a couple of weeks ago, and he seemed quite sure he was going to do it. Imagine the conversation backstage!

Lionel: Hey, George, what are you doing here?
Me (George): I’m doing the opening!
Lionel: No, you’re not! I am!
Me: Sorry, love. I was there first!
Lionel: Are you quite sure? Not fair. How come I wasn’t told?
Me: Because they know that geniuses – such as myself – often get into serious artistic indifferences with themselves and it must therefore be left possibilities – for someone such as myself – to pull out. Therefore, my dear friend, you were not told in case this should happen last minute. But lucky for both me, you and the rest of the world I shall perform an outstanding song live in front of billions of people so nobody needs to listen to your middle of the road bollocks.

That should teach him. Would they really choose him over me?! Please don’t make me laugh! So I decided I should do it anyway.

After having this imaginary conversation out loud with myself – doing different voices and stuff – I said to myself, “Hey George, you can have sex AND write the song!” So I had sex and I wrote the song. It sounds a bit like Freeek! meets I Want Your Sex meets One More Try. So even though I’ve sort of left my original idea at that – an idea – I have written the 2004 Olympic song! And it’s abso-****ing-lutely amazing! Now all I have to do is record the backing track in case they **** that up, add my vocals incase they can’t get that right and I’m ready to rumble!

This is the essence of it:

“I want that gold (da-da-da-da-da-da-da)
I want it now (du-du-du-du-du-du-du)
Not everybody gets it
But everybody should

You’ve got yourself a sponsor
You’ve got yourself a body
You’ve no mind of your own
Bring that gold to me, baby

But if you fail
Remember (yeah-yeah)
Give it one more try
Next year (yeah-yeah)”

I don’t have a melody or an arrangement yet, but I can get that done in a few days. After all, I work really really quickly in the studio. No no, don’t laugh yet. I DO work quickly, really, but I can’t have the Air Studios guys beat me in the weekly Tekken tournament, now, can I! With Eddie I kick some manager/sound engineer/receptionist/bodyguard arse!

Anyway, I should run and get the song done. And it’s not even Friday!

Best,
George xx