Dear Diary – Who am I without it?

Right.

I’ve been thinking, and the thing is, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this whole thing. It’s driving me mad, it’s keeping me up all night, I don’t know what to think anymore, and it makes me nervous thinking about if I’ve lost it, you know. It’s my own fault for leaving it this long, and not appreciating it when I could. What thing? What thing? Not being followed around anymore, of course! What else? That the leeches of the tabloid press and my devoted paparazzis aren’t there whenever I leave the house is very confusing. Kenny misses them too. He says that it’s my own fucking fault for threatening to sue them, but I was a bit pissed off, right, cause… well, it got me some good press and I got to practise my Ricki Lake moves on ITV (talk to the hand cause the face ain’t listenin’ anymore) but also some bad press. But you take the good with the bad, as they say, and I didn’t mean they had to go away away – just leave me alone when I’m fucking, that’s all. I’m doing a lot of other things when I’m out too. Like… well, there’s… I get icecream and stuff.

I want to make sure they cover my new single with Mutya (aka the singer in nappies) at great length, cause I wrote it to get a couple of people off my Christmas card list. Not that I actually send Christmas cards anyway, so it’s more a case of getting me off theirs. Like I don’t get enough adoring mail as it is. The nerve. I’ll never tell who I had in mind. D*cough*id and V*cough*ia. Why people go around pretending to be happy when they’re not is beyond me. I always tell people when I’m happy cause I’m really really happy all the time, really, and I don’t really know how blah I was feeling the previous day until the day after. Confused? Well, I confuse myself a lot too. It’s ok, I’ll bear with you. I always keep feeling better and cooler and happier and when I go from feeling good to feeling better from day to day, my initial feeling had to be somewhat less happy, right?

Anyway, the thing is, I’ve got the Paul McCartney duet coming up as well on my new double greatest hits album. After all, it’s been nearly a decade and one full original album since I did the last one, so it’s about time that I did another one. Or so Sony says I should look at it. Not entirely sure which songs from my much anticipated album “Patience” that I will include, as all the songs are just a few notches better than anything I’ve ever done, so they should all be on there, really. Paul has a classically untrained voice, which is really great, cause it makes my voice sound even better, and by the end of the year everyone will be listening to “Heal the Pain” and say, “That George Michael, he makes Paul McCartney sound like some club singer that only hits random notes” and you know what that means, right? Right? Yes, I’ll be the most influential artist coming out of the UK for the past 50 years. Me!

It’s the reputation I’ve always wanted and soon I’ll have it. I rule!

George x

Dear Diary – Tour nerves

Oh-kay, so it’s like 11 days till I’m on stage and I thought this would be a good time to continue writing in my diary. It’s been two years since my last entry, and – fuck – let’s face it, I’ve done a few things since then. Like getting myself arrested. Again. And falling asleep at the wheel a time or two, but who’s counting. The most important thing to remember is; I haven’t done anything illegal! This year. Unless you count that… anyway, what I mean is, I’ve been a good boy and I’ve been a bad boy, I have too much fun but baby so does everyone. I’ve never been an angel and things ain’t gonna change. Cuz now I’m livin’ my life without other people on my mind, if you know what I’m sayin’.

I sometimes ask myself; why in the name of God did I agree to do nearly 50 gigs in three months? Was I on drugs? Wait, don’t answer that… To begin with, I was a bit apprehensive, as you can imagine, but once I saw how the tickets were flying off the wall, then my ego was sufficiently wanked off so I was in a good mindset to do some live shit. Some weeks ago I gathered everyone in an undisclosed location to start rehearsals. So I played them “Fastlove” on the CD player and asked them to do it. They’re good, so the musicians picked up their parts straight away, but the backing singers had more trouble getting their parts, so I had to say STOP. STOP in the name of all that’s impure and DO IT RIGHT, I said. One of the new ladies, a busty American, walked up to me and said: “Listen, twig. If you just TOLD US which NOTES to SING we could DO IT, mmmkay!” The nerve. So I played them the song again and they got it.

Other than that rehearsals have been going great. My arse looks amazing these days and when I wear that white shirt with a couple of buttons open my chest looks really great. All this working out and eating right and getting in shape thing has really paid off. My voice is where it needs to be too, for that matter. It’s smooth as a baby’s arse – very unlike my own, of course – when it needs to be and rough as a cheesegrater when I want that. I’m practically my own fantasy: rough yet tender, and not to mention… I’m fucking cool, mmmkay!

Back to business. Need to wank eat my lettuce before embarking on another long, hard, rough day of rehearsing. Not that I need it, obviously, but my band does. And my backing singers do. If you’re gonna do it, do it right.

Angel of tragedy,
George xx

Dear Diary – I hate spiders

I hate this time of year. Why? Spiders. All of them seem to decide to go inside my house. “F*ck this cold, we’re going in! Where… where… wheeeere… I know, let’s try George’s house!”

The other day I was on the couch and this HUGE (and I mean HUGE!)(It easily had an inch thick body!)(add the legs!) spider crawled up in front of my face. I nearly had a heartattack, screamed out loud, and Kenny came running downstairs to see who had died. When I said, standing on the table, “a spider, a spider, a spider!!!” and pointing at the huge beast, he laughed out loud. Until he saw It! Then he said something like, “Holy sh*t!” and joined me on the table.

We had a couple of rounds of paper, scissor, stone and I won, so Kenny had to sneak off the table and find something to knock the f*cker dead with. He found the phonebook, dropped it on the creature and waited. I contemplated getting off the safe island, until we saw the book moving. Moving! And out came the spider! It shrugged, looked up at me (I swear to God!) and ran insanely quickly towards me. Our eyes met (I said it was huge, didn’t I!) and I looked up, considering jumping up to the lamp, when Kenny came out of the kitchen, holding an empty glass, sneaking up on It. And there, finally, it was trapped.

Now the problem was, how to get rid of it. It seemed quite calm underneath the redwine glass, and we decided to keep it under there for a while, given neither of us really wanted to throw It out and risking It getting loose. So we decided to wait until a strong-willed, brave man came to the rescue. Which, let’s face it, was highly likely.

Of course, this particular week had to be a slow one, and the only bloke paying us a visit just looked at it and said, “I ain’t touchin’ that!” Four days after the original capture of It, I came downstairs in the morning (2pm) and saw – to my absolute horror – that the glass was, get this, PUSHED OVER!!! The spider had made a nice little web inside the glass, shed Its skin and moved on. I was petrified. The next three days I couldn’t sit still anywhere without breaking into a nervous sweat and insisted on sleeping in the Range Rover. As Kenny felt particularly nervous about sleeping alone in what now felt like a scene out of Arachnaphobia, so he slept in the BMW. Sadly, though “Fastlove” states differently, there’s no f*cking room in a BMW.

After doing this a few days we decided to go spider hunting. Equipped with a full raincoat, slippery pants, wellies and gloves, we searched the whole house. Eventually we found It underneath a chair in the livingroom with three others, probably having a community meeting on “how to deal with annoying Greek bloke and blonde American who keep putting us under glasses”. All of them ended up under four individual glasses and – cause of protective equipment – we could take them all out.

So to all you spiders out there: “FREEZE TO DEATH, MOTHERF*CKERS!”

George xx

Dear Robbie – I’ve read your book

I looked up a couple of your fans online and they willingly gave me your address so I could write you. How come you move without telling me, changing your phone numbers without letting me know, how come you’re basically ignoring me these days?

I’ve read your book, right, and the thing is… it’s not my fault that I’m at ease with my sexuality and you’re not. I know who I am, right, and one should think that what we did on that day should have been enough to convince you as well, but hey, by all means, don’t admit it. Fine. Whatever, right. I just thought we had a great time together and what do you do? You ignore me. Why, I ask. Why? And I’ve realised, it’s because you’re jealous. You’re jealous because I’m confident and open and out there , man!

I’ve taken out a few excerpts from your book. I call them evidence 1 to 4. Allow me to start with No.1: “Rob rarely mentions his first solo-single, a cover of George Michael’s “Freedom 90″. It has been written out of his history. It appears on none of his albums and will not appear on his greatest hits album.” What I don’t understand here, Rob, is why you refuse to acknowledge the fact that we once had something special, a friendship, a laugh, everything dude, and now… now you won’t even acknowledge that you’ve recorded one of my songs. A song of which I’m very proud of, one I sing every time I do a live concert, and you won’t even have it on your greatest hits album. Sure, it’s not as good as mine – by a long shot – but hey, what can you expect?

No.2: “‘Yeah’, he says, ‘but when there’s talent around like me, when there’s evil around like me, there’s no competition.’ Pause. ‘And he’s made a massive mistake by not releasing a ballad.’ He’s stopped making videos too, I point out. ‘Yeah,’ says Rob. ‘He thinks he’s George Michael or someone.’” Are you suggesting I never release any material and never make any videos? Rob, darling, honey… I’ve been an artist for 22 odd (and I really mean that) years, and I’ve left a great body of work behind. I’ve released some great stuff, all of it in fact, compared to certain others that throw albums out there like they were… something else. Without any consideration for the consequences or the record buyers. Your fans aren’t as rich as you and I, and it’s only fair that they shouldn’t have to spent ten quid on one of your albums more than once or twice every decade. Come on, show some consideration, for God’s sake! And regarding videos. I make videos! I made the most expensive video in Universal history – Freeek! as you, of course, remember (or at least you should remember the lobster suit) – and I made a political satire and I made a crap video for Amazing, and I made a video costing the grand total of £3,50 for Flawless and now recently I put together a video for Round Here. It was filmed last year, but it’s out. You can catch it on the Box. On Sky.

No.3: ‘Ooooh,’ says Rob when he hears this, in an isn’t-he-tetchy-today? tone. ‘What I make of this is, I must have been a huge torn in his side for a long time. And he hasn’t been able to deal with it. But I’ll bring it up at the next community meeting’.” I stand by my position regarding your record deal. You got a better deal than me, what do you expect? Well, I got a better deal (without going into details here)(I got royalties for all my previous work)(though I have to release a duets album), but you f*cked all of us by accepting a whopping 50 million. FIFTY MILLION, Rob! You know what that means, don’t you? It means I have to sell my LA house, my St. Tropez house, other houses and pull money out of other investments to match you. And you know how I like matching. Like when I was on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire with Ronan Keating (for whom I’m going to write a new song!)(Hah!)(If you’re been a little bit less of a twat, I could have done the same for you, but hey…!) I said, “If we miss this question I’ll match it so we go up to 64,000 anyway.” And we didn’t miss on that. But we missed on the next. So I matched the 32,000 we’d already won to make it 64,000. Have you any idea the things I had to do I match your 50 million? It’s bollocks, do you hear me, bollocks!

No.4: “One Friday morning he sits at the dinner room and makes a CD for Matt Lucas, whose thirtieth birthday party he will be attending that evening. He cuts out figures from Attitude magazine to customise the CD case and cover. For the rest, he simply uses George Michael’s “Patience” CD case. He titles the compilation ‘Lonely On Top’.” How come I wasn’t invited to Matt Lucas’s birthday party? I invited him to mine! This is news to me, I didn’t even know he was 30. He’s funny, he’s on Little Britain, he’s that bloke that is too lazy to get out of his wheelchair and makes his friend take him up stairs and stuff. See, I watch this stuff. I bet you don’t! And you get invited to his party. Smell the unfairness there! But hey, at least he got my CD case. You should have given him my CD instead. I’m sure it was better than yours anyway. Then again, everyone attending my birthday party got a copy of it as a welcome gift. I know how to spread my word, you see! Or in this case, my work. And I do it well.

I include full quotes below. Insensitive it is. Insensitive. I’m hurt.

George

***********

1) “‘Well, don’t let me,’ says Rob. He says they’ll just leave it as it is on the demo. ‘I won’t let you down,’ he suddenly says, for no clear reason, ‘I will not give you up. I’ve gotta have some faith in my sound. It’s the one good thing that I’ve got.’ ‘Who’s that?’ asks Guy, his ears perking up at what sounds like a usable lyric. ‘It’s me,’ says Rob. ‘It’s my first single. “Freedom”. (…) Rob rarely mentions his first solo-single, a cover of George Michael’s “Freedom 90″. It has been written out of his history. It appears on none of his albums and will not appear on his greatest hits album. He has never performed it live in concert. It marks the time when he was first a solo artist. So his contract said anyway, and so he told everyone, but in reality he had yet to become one (…) For the video shoot for his first single in Miami, he hadn’t even got around to recording his own version of “Freedom 90″ yet, so he just mimed to George Michael’s record instead.”

2) “He stumbles upon a reference to being voted villain of the year in the NME readers’ poll. Osama Bin Laden has come second. ‘The first time I was really over the moon.’ I note that competition must have been tougher this year, with Osama on the scene. ‘Yeah’, he says, ‘but when there’s talent around like me, when there’s evil around like me, there’s no competition.’ Pause. ‘And he’s made a massive mistake by not releasing a ballad.’ He’s stopped making videos too, I point out. ‘Yeah,’ says Rob. ‘He thinks he’s George Michael or someone.’

3) “In promotion of his new album “Patience”, George Michael gives an interview to the Telegraph magazine, in which he critisises Rob’s record deal. (This is someone, it seems fair to mention here, who told Rob that he was seriously considering the option of not using a traditional record company and doing a deal with one of the big supermarket chains instead.) ‘That Robbie Williams deal ****s every artist, because it says “Okay guys, you’re not making enough money on the records you’re screwing me on, come and take some of my merchandise, come and take my book publishing, take this, take that…” It’s like, you ****er. The point is, he has – and he told me – no, I’m not even going to say what he told me…’ The interviewer encourages him to do so. ‘No, I can’t say. At the end of the day I think it’s a huge betrayal of any sense of community. But then there isn’t a community any more, so I suppose it’s understandable.’

‘Ooooh,’ says Rob when he hears this, in an isn’t-he-tetchy-today? tone. ‘What I make of this is, I must have been a huge torn in his side for a long time. And he hasn’t been able to deal with it. But I’ll bring it up at the next community meeting’.”

4) “One Friday morning he sits at the dinner room and makes a CD for Matt Lucas, whose thirtieth birthday party he will be attending that evening. He cuts out figures from Attitude magazine to customise the CD case and cover. For the rest, he simply uses George Michael’s “Patience” CD case. He titles the compilation ‘Lonely On Top’.”

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

Found old entry from the 80s:

Dear Diary,

It’s the morning after the night before. I’m not quite sure what the hell happened last night, but I have a vague recollection of how it all started.

Now, I was going to my friend Aldo’s restaurant, right, with a couple of friends. It’s my favourite restaurant, mind you, and Aldo has a way to persuade me into buying that expensive wine that I like. That goes straight to my head.

We were sitting there waiting, right, then we’re having an excellent meal, the wine is even more excellent, my friends – a couple, of course, were getting rather touchy/feely and I felt a bit left out. I looked around, couples couples couples everywhere. Needless to say, it was a bit unfair.

So I ordered another bottle. At this point I’ve stopped caring about the soddin’ couples surrounding me everywhere. Being who I am, and not having performed a song for a while, I rather felt like doing one. I thought, “I wonder what would happen if I just got up and started singing…?”

It’s kind of like when you sit across from someone and think, “If I just spat on her RIGHT now…” or “If I start screaming really loudly…” The ‘what if’ scenarios are rather intriguing, if you ask me. Besides, for some reason, people find it even more shocking when it’s someone like me acting out of character.

Suddenly I found myself serenading all the diners, singing, “To all the girls I’ve loved before.” Don’t ask. Imagine, right, me going, “To all the girls I’ve loved before, who travelled in and out my door, I’m glad they came along, I dedicate this song to all the girls I’ve loved before. The winds of change are always blowing and every time I try to stay the winds of change continue blowing and they just carry me away” I wish it was a joke, but it’s not. Unfortunately. (But hey, at least it suits my voice!)

The guys didn’t seem too impressed, I seem to recall. A couple of women were quite taken with it, though, I think. I believe I asked one if she wanted to go with me, and she was about to answer when her boyfriend – I presume – stood up and it’s the classic scenario when the boyfriend is like 8 feet tall and makes you look like an ant in comparison.

After much consideration, and with a little help from Aldo and a few waiters, I decided to leave. I grabbed the bottle, raved down the street to some club and picked up some… whatever it was. Woke up this morning in an unknown room with an elephant sitting on my head (or so it felt) and someone in the shower. Decided to leg it before I was reminded of what I’d picked up and am now home. Feel slightly bad, but hey… life is life etc.

Aldo just called and said I didn’t have to return to his restaurant until I found it convenient to not make a fool of myself and upset his guests in the process. Added I was most welcome back, but that the wine would be limited to one bottle. Unfair. All I did was do what I usually do on a stage. I’m sure I’d get the chick if her damned boyfriend wasn’t there. I’m sure I could have taken him on – if he hadn’t been like 10 feet.

Oh well. I’m sure by the turn of the decade, the 90’s, there will be some sort of method to make me look like I’m 10 feet tall as well. Could of course consider high heels. In the meantime, I’ll keep telling myself I’m 6ft.

George xx PS: WHY can’t I get the f*cking song outta my head!? “To all the girls I’ve loooved befoooore….”

Dear Diary – note to self: Don’t talk to Geri

I’m f*cked. I met up with Geri, right, after God knows how long and we had dinner, a bottle of wine – or three – and I found myself eeeeeeeeeever so sliiiightly inebriated. Geri talks about something, I reply something, I’m not even sure what we’re talking about, suddenly she asks me a question, looking anxiously at me, awaiting an answer. She looked so eager, bless her, so I said, “Yes…?” and she threw herself around my neck, so I guessed I’d said the right thing. Then we drank some more.

The morning after, around 2pm, I checked voicemail and was met with about 14 new messages from Geri saying how excited she was that I’d said yes to perform at some concert. I skipped through and eventually reached the one saying “Royal Albert Hall”, so I called my manager who said he was absolutely delighted and had already called the Hall and confirmed I was going. When did anyone stop for a second and ask me? Well, besides Geri, obviously?

Minutes later Geri was at my door, hammering, making me get out of bed. (Oh, WHY why why?) I opened up, she came in, all boobs and flesh on display, and looked like a kid who’s just won a candy shop. Literally jumping up and down thrilling, “Are you ready to rehearse our duet yet?” and my initial reaction was, “Scuse me!?”

Apparently I agreed to that too. (Note to self: never drink near Geri again.)

Against my better judgement I got in the car with her and we drove down to the studio – that had also been miraculously booked. I started wondering if I was living in some parallell universe where everyone else had made plans for the past month without including me, or given me amnesia or something. We got into ‘my’ studio, Geri pulled out a tape and put it on. It sounded sort of like “Faith” meets “Candle in the wind” on speed. The lyrics went something like this:

George (me): “I thought it would be nice… to sing with Geri”
Geri: “Geri”
George: “But even great minds are sometimes wrong”
Geri: “Wrong”

George: “What a ****ing great idea this turned out to be”
Geri: “Be”
George: “I wish I was home watching TV”
Geri: “TV”
George: “Instead”
Geri: “Instead”
Both: “Insteaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad”

Then I said something insulting about Geri’s voice, and there was uncontrollable giggles for the next two minutes. Then, the morning after, however, she was looking at me – not giggling – with her hands on her hips. “What do you mean my voice is weak?” and I said, “Darling… it is…” and wrecked my brain for something reasonable to add, “…weakER than, say, mine. Love.” She thought about it for a second, and somehow seemed to agree with herself. And me. That I was right.

So we threw that particular idea away. A cover version then, I thought.

“You’re the one that I want?” she suggested.
I suggested no.

“Careless whisper?” she suggested.
Also a no.

“How about I just sing a song on my own without you?” I suggested.
She said she hadn’t heard that song.
I said she was clearly misunderstanding what I was trying to say, adding, “I don’t think we should do this duet” upon where she said, “Nope, haven’t heard that either.”

An hour later she slammed the door in my face and said I was an uncaring *******. Three minutes later she came back and apologized and said I was very caring in some ways, and was very glad I was doing the concert, but not too pleased about brushing our much anticipated duet plans under the carpet. “I’ve even told my Mom,” she said, giving me big eyes. I said nothing. Geri knows that means I’ve made up my mind. I have principals, I do!

To cut a long story short, we got back to the drawing table, as it was, and I suggested some new lyrics to a new song.

“One fine day we’ll be alright
Cause I know – the tears of a child
Won’t go in vain
And that long lost love
That you’d thought would never come
Won’t be long till paradise

All the trials and changes in life
Are just windows that help us
See the wrong from the right
I’ve been down before now baby
Had my face kicked in the dirt
But there’s an answer, little one
Up above

Let your shame go
Let it subside
Cause nobody’s perfect
And you’re not alone
Forget about the past
The future’s looking bright
Won’t be long till paradise.”

I was quite pleased with myself, actually. Geri didn’t look impressed. Well, at first she did, until I said there was no way I could make it into a duet. She rushed me to try again, but I don’t take instructions from anyone. If people tell me what to do, I will do the opposite, so I said, “No. No, I can’t do it again”, stood up and left. Then came back, took my new song, and left. Then came back again, brought my bag, my song, and left. Then realised I didn’t have a car, so I had to call for backup. Then realised I’d left cellphone somewhere I couldn’t remember, so had to go to nearest payphone, only to realise I didn’t have coins, and basically had to beg some guy for 50p. He said he’d give me a quid for an autograph. (Is that all I’m worth nowadays? A QUID!?) I finally made the call, only to be pestered by some annoying lady with a kid who had to make a call “five minutes ago”. Honestly!

Nobody were bloody available (why do I pay these people?!) so I had to walk home on my own. I thought of taking the bus, but unfortunately there is no bus from my studio to my front door. And last time I took the bus it cost like 35p. Which – at this point – I didn’t have. Should make call to local authority and make it happen. What if someone really needs to go from my house to my studio and don’t – for some reason – have a car? What then? Walk? What if it rains? No, this should be dealt with, and properly! First thing in the morning.

Now, not sure if this duet will go away or not, but I guess I really do have to do the concert. My fans are getting excited, I’ve called the Royal Albert Hall twice and they have confirmed that “George Michael is playing, yes”. One gave me an attitude when I said who I was. B*tch. It’s been a while since I was last onstage properly. Maybe I’ll just mime “Amazing” and throw in “Father Figure”, “Fastlove” and “Freedom 90″ for the heck of it. Or maybe, just maybe, I should do the lobster suit. Kenny says it makes my arse look nice. And after all, what more can one want?

George xxx

PS: Cannot believe Robbie used the CD case to “Patience” as cover for compilation CD for Matt Lucas’s 30th birthday. B*stard.

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