Dear Diary – Are my tour demands too high?

I don’t think so. Do you?

-Private Jet

-No Press/Media Commitments

-No communication with manager/s unless absolutely necessary

-Hot Gay Bodyguards

-5 star accommadation w/ 24/7 internet access (in order to hire local tricks)

-Full Time Dog Minder/Walker/Feeder

-Full time Massage Therapist and Osteopath on Call

-24/7 Access to Psychotherapist

-Tour Assistant with sole responsibility of lining up fucks/tricks/pricks in each city

-Tour Assistant with sole responsibility of identifying local Starbucks & purchasing Venti Non-Fat Frappuccino

-Hair Stylist prepared to wax, pluck and bleach unwanted body hair

-Balaclava Handler

-Make Up Artist with no other commitments than apply and re-apply before, during and after each set/break and before leaving hotels/planes/between fucks.

-Widescreen TV with Sky box available at any time with pre-recorded EastEnders, This Morning, Richard & Judy, gay porn and various other programmes of interest.

-Personal Arse-Fondler (hey, J-Lo has a nipple-guy!)

-Personal Ego Wank provider before going on stage

-Qualified Neumann U49 microphone polisher

-Part Time Purveyor and Spliff Roller

-Full Time tour photographer and Mini DV handler – must be fully abreast on The Talent’s photographic preferences.

-Full Time Liaison between Kenny Goss & myself when Kenny is busy wining and dining Ms Halliwell/friends/family/fans/press or partaking in weekly botox injections/necessary work-outs to keep up with me

-Full Time Personal Fitness Trainer: Must be attractive, highly skilled in body work and willing to prompt suitable diet – and with stamina to say no when The Talent gets the munchies on Doritos, Hagen Dazs icecream and/or pasta

-Full Time Teeth Bleacher

-Part Time Tea Brewer and Lemon Squeezer for daily intake of tea and water with fresh lemon juice

-Part time Linguist for the purpose of teaching The Talent to say Hola Barcelona, Hei Oslo, etc when going onstage in different countries to connect with crowd in their respective language.

I got some complaints. Why why why!? I am not a diva!

King George x

Dear Diary – La Pharmacia

Last night I decided to go for a walk in Madrid and I’m amazed at the number of pharmacies here. On every corner. Blinking green neon signs La Pharmacia. I snuck out on my own on a whim and wondered how long it would take before it would cause a frenzy. As it turns out, nobody cares. I was almost disappointed. I tried asking for directions to a few places, but to no avail. I asked “Do you speak any English” and I just got long stares followed by – add Spanish accent – “No, a little.” I got directions, though somehow confusing. They’d all say “go to right” and point to the left and vice versa. It was also “only couple minots” in whatever direction but I never found anything.

In the end I couldn’t even find the way back to my hotel, got in a cab, the guy had no idea what I was saying, I gave him the name of the hotel but he literally had no clue. He kept talking in Spanish, I said I didn’t understand, no comprende, no hablo espanol etc. When I didn’t understand him he spoke even louder and faster – still in Spanish – and I really didn’t know what the fuck to do. I’d left my mobile phone at the hotel and started perspiring rather badly. So I was about to get out of the cab and bumped into this guy that clearly wanted to get in. He looked at me and said “Yorge.” The cab driver looked back and the new guy said something very fast and exciting in Spanish, I heard my alter-ego name and the driver then said “Ah, George Michael. What hotel?”

So suddenly he knew more English than the average Londoner and chatted away about his sister being a Wham! fan back in the day and him meeting his wife during the Faith tour. He even lent me his phone so I could call my bodyguard. I was kind of meek as he was sleeping in his room and I wasn’t supposed to leave, at least without telling him. He gave me the address, I passed it onto the driver and ten minutes later of verbal diarrhea we were there. I was met by my bodyguard and Kenny in the reception, both gave me a piece of their mind and said I should tell’em where I go next time so I don’t cause another security alert.

Random thought: with all those pharmacies, surely they’ll sell weed over the counter for medical purposes?

George x

Dear Diary – I rock

Well, it goes to say, doesn’t it? Hell did eventually freeze over and I did pull off the gig. I came out on the stage and had 18,000 people screaming in my face as I said “Hola Barcelona” that I’d learned from the Spanish guy I had fucked the previous night. I want to do that for every gig. Greet the crowd in their local language. Thank fuck I’m not going to Russia or China, cause that’d be interesting. And they’d spend the next two hours laughing at my rats accent instead of enjoying the show.

It’s taken me a few days to get over the initial shock – and giving a few people some heat for fucking up my goddamn show! “Too Funky” twice!! – of actually pulling through. I’m in Madrid rehearsing for the second gig tomorrow, and have told my staff that either do it right or fuck off. So they’re going to do it right this time. I was happy, overall, and the audience was amazing. (“I think you’re amazing…”) The stage show is way cool – especially with thousands of adoring fans screaming at ya.

The Bush joke went down well. I knew that was a great idea the moment I’d had three spliffs, a curry, a fuck and a blowjob (not in that order) and thought of it. It’s my favourite part of the visual, definitely. One thing I wasn’t too happy about was that I fucked up the lyrics now and then – but I don’t think anyone noticed.

It’s the biggest ego wank I’ve had since… well, let’s not go there. May do “Understand” – as we’ve done it in rehearsals – for the Madrid gig. Maybe. Though, will leave the planned medley permanently out.

Everybody wants a lover like… moi.

George x

Dear Diary – This Is It

IT’S
THE
FINAL
COUNTDOWN
DA DA DA DA
DA
DA
DA
DA
DA

Dear Diary – It’s The Final Countdown

I’m just nervous now. In 36 hours I’m on the stage in front of however many thousand people that have waited between 15 and 18 years to see me here. I didn’t sleep last night, and was getting testy with people in rehearsals. Tried calming myself down with a shag but that didn’t work either.

My brain is empty, my mouth is dry, I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know I had places, I ran into fans on the street when I tried getting a new suppliance of weed and had to chase the poor guy away to not ruin my rep as a clean, sober rolemodel for my fans. Shit.

Anxiously yours,
George x

Dear Diary – Rehearsing is kinda…

…boring!

I’ve been rehearsing for weeks already and once I’m down here on my own, it’s even more boring. Just let the sycophancy begin. I already have a number of people kissing my hairy arse – some more literally than others – and it makes me feel something in between annoyed and flattered. This is why it’s good to have the backup singers that I do, cause one in particular is really vocal when she doesn’t like something I say/sing or do. I like that.

I was up really early this morning – like nine (yawn) – and been in rehearsals about three hours until they wanted lunch around here. It was just as well, cause by the end of it I started making up additional lyrics to my own songs. Especially as I’m forced to do “Careless Whisper” again, I thought I’d spice it up a bit. It went as follows:

I’m never gonna wank again
Guilty wrist has got no rhythm
Though it’s easy to pretend
I think I’m not a fool
I should have known better
Than to yank my plank
And waste the chance
That I’d been given
So I’m never gonna wank again
In the public loo-oo-ooo

Everyone went awfully quiet, so I turned around to be faced with a horde of gawking musicians as well as my singers. The outspoken lady was standing in a hands-high-on-hips posture and shaking her head. I said “Whaaat?” and she said “George… pfft! We’re goin’ for lunch. You stay here with your perverted lyrics.” And off they went, some giggling, some in horror. Well, ’scuse me for trying to cope. At least I wasn’t fucking someone in front of them. Who knew they were actually listening anyway…!?

I give up. For now.

George x

Dear Diary – You Don’t Fool Me

OK, so I’m confused.

I’m in Barcelona, right, on my own (considering Kenny decided to stay home and take Geri to the Ivy so they could gossip and rubber-neck together) and decided to go out and wander the streets. I thought, nobody here will realise it’s me, cause, surely, they remember me with big hair and a beard and jeans and… oh wait…! I see why this went wrong now.

Anyway, lemme explain.

I went out, and saw this dude in a club thing and went up to him. He was tall, dark and handsome and looked kinda Spanish. I don’t know much Spanish, to be totally honest with ya. I know about as much Spanish as I know French. So really… nil. But, I did do a song with Portugese lyrics. Desafinado. You remember. So I walked up to him, gave him my most seducing glance and said – from the song – “Eu possuo apenas o que cleus me deu”. I never really knew what it meant (and still don’t, to be honest). I was expecting it to work really well. After all, I put in my really soft voice, gave him big eyes over my dark sunglasses and leaned across the bar. It always works. Sometimes. Ya know what he said? “Twat”. TWAT! In perfect English! Turned out the arsehole was a Brit! Well, excuse me for tryin’. So I said “So that’s a no then?” and he said… actually he didn’t say anything, he just gave me a look, turned his back and walked away. He walked away from George Michael. Turned his BACK on the George! I thought he may not have recognised me, that my plan was working and moved on.

So I got out of there and down to this local diner or whatever. I was getting hungry and fancied something to eat before embarking on my dessert later on. IfyouknowwhatImean. I walked into the room and every noise, all the clinking noises of cuttlery and talking and everything just went zoom – quiet as a… quiet. I sat down, hid behind the menu when this girl came up to me and said – with an enticing Spanish accent – “What can I get Mr Michael?” I said I wasn’t Mr Michael. It’s true, really. Even though I gave my ego a name, doesn’t mean I’m him. It means my ego requires its own planet (Planet George), but it doesn’t mean that I’m who my ego is. Or something. Whatever, she looked at me and said “You shake your butt in video” and I said my butt hadn’t been in any video. She said something out loud in Spanish and four big guys came over. They looked at me and nodded. “They say all you George Michael.” Suddenly all eyes on me, I excused myself and practically ran out.
When I got back to my hotel I ordered in. He was really hot. Tomorrow, more rehearsals. Excited. Will report back.

George x

Dear Diary – I hate flying

I’ve had a good weekend. I won’t go into details, but it involved me, a couple of cute, naked, greased-up guys, some wine, some weed, some – well – shagging and the works. What were they called? I don’t think I care.

I’m now in Spain. It’s hot. Arrived this morning. I was told at the airport that I couldn’t bring my laptop on the plane and had a loud argument with the young, cocky fucker behind the till that said if I had a problem I could direct my sarcasm and swearing towards the manager. People were queueing up, I was just waiting for the fucking press to show up, but as I was in the middle of making a scene anyway I said I’d wait – in his face – till he had called up the manager. I was getting quite excited, to tell you the truth, to give this manager a piece of my mind, when this absolutely incredibly gorgeous guy (tall, dark, fit, tanned – like a tall, dark Kenny) came up and said mildly, “What can I do ya for, Sir?” I was gawking for a while, until I said “Do you accept a credit card?” but he didn’t seem to find it funny. It wasn’t meant to be funny either, but everyone else were laughing. I explained about the laptop and that I didn’t want some other arsehole to end up with all my… private documents and… unfinished songs and… family pictures. Ya know! At this point I still had my weed firmly placed in my pocket inside the actual pocket and wrapped in something (that I obviously cannot reveal) to keep even dogs from smelling it. Finally (!) we agreed that I could bring my laptop on, but not my bottle of water. So I said fine, got through security and onto the plane.

On the actual plane I had a goddamn pissant screaming kid fucker on board. I was in first class and had a 3-month-old right behind me. I already felt my lips tightening when I was in the boarding area – that I’d already arrived fashionably late, of course – and saw this tiny little shit in a sling. It was already doing the most annoying almost-crying noises. You know the kind, right? The ee… ee… ee… ee…, then pause, it took a deep breath before embarking on the real one. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Pitched, of course, to get maximum response. Kenny was at this point looking lovingly at me, with begging eyes, but before he got to the question I calmly shook my head and mouthed “nooooo!” before I added, “Play families with Geri if you want one.” So he turned around on his heel and did that very thing. Hmmmf!

I finally got to the hotel – at an undisclosed location (fairly close to the venue on Saturday) and the first thing I got when I arrived was a note from Sony saying, “Decide on 12 songs that haven’t been on albums before that are going on the third record on the greatest hits. By Friday, please.” First I thought they were full of shit, but then… I called them up and they were, well, serious.

We’re currently in rehearsals – looking forward to Saturday with some horror but also starting to feel slight excitement.

Love,
George xx

Dear Diary – Elton sux

 

Georgie Porgy Pudding and Pie
Kissed the girls and made them cry
And when the boys came out to play
He kissed them too cause he was gay.

It made me laugh when I received it on one of those emails from friends that you hardly ever look at cause you think it’s going to be something stupid without a point. This time, however, it was my buddy David that sent me this one with one comment: “Find Thyself, m8!” Sometimes I think he thinks I’m bloody stupid. I practically invented that verse. It was funny in 1976, Dave. Nothing against the guy but sometimes…

I’m in a bad mood. I realised today, at rehearsal, that I don’t think my voice is going to hold up two and a half hours fifty times. I don’t know how it’s even going to be possible, considering I’ve been in rehearsals for a couple of weeks and I’m feeling the laryngitis coming on. Not of the kind that I sometimes get when I want an excuse to pull out of a show, but the real kind. My throat is sore, my voice is getting scruffy… and oddly enough smoking weed doesn’t seem to help either. And I thought weed was the answer to everything bad. Confusing.

So I thought, right, I’ll record a live track just in case I can’t pull off the whole show. So that way I can get away with miming the tracks and be there and avoid the fireworks it will cause if I pull out. When it’s done live in the studio, how are they going to tell? Most people are surely just going to one gig – and the other freaks that are going to every single one, well, what can I say… So I called Elton and I said “Surely you don’t sing all your songs, three hours a night, 300 times a year?” and he said “Yes I fucking do.” Huh… interesting. So I said “I’m thinking of doing a backup solution, a live track in case I don’t feel like singing or my voice is going bad. That’s ok right?” and Elton said “You’re charging people an average of seventy quid a ticket and you actually think you’ll get away with miming? Does a rocking horse have a wooden dick, George? Does it? No. And that’s the answer to your question, you lazy shit.” I knew there was a reason I hated Elton. Elton sucks. I’m doing it. You little fucker.

I’ve been thinking about these suicide bombers and stuff. They always go for the big airlines aren’t they? Top choices being American Airlines, British Airways, Virgin Atlantic and others that actually go directly from city to city. I was looking into flying Ryan Air to most of my destinations on the tour, because surely, there’s zero to no chance of these terrorists blowing up a bloody Ryan Air plane, innit? Think about it, these people wanna end up in paradise – not thirty miles by coach away from paradise. So I might do that. Or hire my own private jet. I’m getting Kenny to take flying lessons, that way he can fly himself when he goes to America so I don’t have to worry about a terrorist running off with him. Who’d help me spend my tour money if someone else took him?

I don’t know what to do about this live thing. Cause I couldn’t possibly just go out there and perform the best I can, cause most of the time my best isn’t good enough by my own standards. Of course Elton can do three hours in a row without a backup plan. He doesn’t have my ear. I hear all my own mistakes, I can’t sound less than perfect, and I haven’t done a full gig for 15 years where I didn’t sit on my arse for the whole duration of the show with a control panel in front of me. I was in full control. This time leave that into the hands of someone else, I’ll have to move, do the George Michael dance and those moves I learned from Paula Abdul 19 years ago. I can do it. Walk to the left, walk to the right, clap hands, wave torso back and forth, snap fingers, do a little jump perhaps. I’ll look awesome!

George xx

Dear Diary – Work is hard

I was up at 10am this morning. How do ordinary people get up before this hour every day of the week, all year round? It’s 3pm and I’m knackered. We’ve been trying to piece together a video with Mutya, but she’s not around, so we’re filming me today. It’s been a trial.

First of all, we’re working with all new people, everyone from make-up to camera to directing and editing. The first problem was with make-up. When I sat down in the chair, sucking my frappuccino, an incredibly camp guy came through the door shouting “no no no no no!” I nearly choked on my straw, looked at myself in the mirror, wondering what he said no to. Sure, I hadn’t done my hair and I haven’t shaved for a while and I was in my regular jeans and zipper top – but I’m looking trim, handsome, hot and all things that are good. I eventually asked “what?” and he pointed stiffly at my beard. I asked “what?” again and he said – in American – “that has to go. That’s soooo not hot!” At this point my pitch raised and for the third time I said “what!” and added “I haven’t not had a beard for years! Since nineteeneightyfour! You can’t possibly be serious! I’m George Michael! I have a beard!”

This caused him fold his arms across his chest and spin around on his heel, looking away. The hairdresser came in and asked what the hell was up. The flamer said “I can’t work with this! Look at his face!” The hairdresser looked at me, looked at him and said “Yes, and?” The reply was, “He has more hair in his face than I have on my entire body! It’s gross!” Excuse me!? Gross!? At this point I stood up, walked around him, looked him angrily in the eye and grabbed the make-up bag he held in his hand and said “Gimme that.” I can do my own bloody make-up. We had to involve an aggressive party – aka Andy Stephens – that took care of the guy and suddenly I was on my own with a mirror. I looked into the bag and saw black mascara for my eyelashes and beard. There was age-defying foundation (hmmf!), eyeliner, powder, lipgloss and blush.

I took out my beard trimmer and cut it rather short, applied a thin layer of mascara to rid myself of the gray. It looked rather good, if I may be so honest. After applying the foundation (it actually smoothed out my skin rather well – shocking!), I took the mascara back out and attempted to apply it to my eyes. Ten minutes later, and countless lick-and-remove of mascara from all over my face, I caught myself with my mouth wide open. I remembered laughing at my girlfriends/beards in the past applying mascara with their mouths open and wondered what use that had. And there I was, doing it myself. I finished up and looked at the lip gloss. I applied it and looked like Kylie Minogue with a beard, my lips practically pulsating in the mirror. The hairdresser showed up, looked at me and broke into hysterical laughter. For the 4th time that morning I asked “what?” and he said “You look like a drag queen.” Yeah, thank you. Considering I hadn’t put my contacts in yet that morning, I thought I’d done rather well. He prompted me to put on my glasses and the moment I did so I screamed like a little girl. I didn’t look like a drag queen, I looked like a fucking clown.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures, so I called Kenny and asked him to come down and work his magic on me. He said he was with Geri and his kid. Her kid. I said to ditch them unless he wanted to be written out of my will, and he was there in less than ten minutes. By then I had washed off my disastrous attempt and fifteen minutes later he’d made me look pretty. He even plucked my eyebrows. Kenny’s so gay. In our relationship I feel like Will from Will&Grace and he’s Jack. On more levels than one.

By the time I was done with make-up, hair and had been forced to change into another outfit, it was lunch – and here I am, dressed to the teeth, waiting for things to happen. I’m sweating, my mascara is running and the camera crew will probably insist on filming my bad side. Sigh.

Work is hard.

George x