As Big Ben tolled “jet lag coming!”, we rode our trusty Coventry-built black steed toward a Christmas bird cooked by La Mamma Seriousimo.
George was my special guy since all that time ago when he looked longingly into my eyes – MINE, not yours – from the big screen at the Gosford Blue Light Disco and reassured me that “it’s cold out there, but it’s warm in bed…”. I barely knew then that bed was for anything other than sleep and reading Sweet Valley High by torchlight under my doona. But I knew things would be sweet in bed with Georgios. How right I was!
When La first moved to Londra in my K-mart ‘coat’ (wafer-thin; looked like it had been bequeathed to me by an unemployed Durham miner) and leather Reeboks in 1993, the title of my memoir was to be Finding George Michael. My residence was only to be considered a success if I clapped eyes – and hopefully claws – on him. I managed it, once, on Hampstead High Street, years after it had ceased to feel so important; years after it felt like Londra had become my town as much as Georgios’s. Wish I could bump into him now.
Then me and the JCCs ined up too, suddenly deciding it wasn’t that harebrained of an idea after all.
Retreated to the relative calm of Harvey Nicks Fifth Floor Café, an old family favourite. We shared jolly memories of the time we’d just deplaned from Sydney and the male JCC kept telling us he felt really sick and we kept telling him he was just jetlagged. Then we descended one floor and he vomited all over the Preen and Marc Jacobs. Ah, good times.
“Nah…it’s gotta be slower than that, guv. It’s gotta be…”
“Yeah, dead slow.”
Here’s to 2016, the year that’s been slow and full of death. Let’s mount it on Stella’s bronze steed in less than a week and whip it off into the…who gives a shit where it goes, frankly. As long as it goes.