Showing posts with label CELEBRITY. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CELEBRITY. Show all posts

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

ADOPT OR DIE



The Queen Mum of Pop eyes fatherhood… 

          
For better or worse, delusion is the de facto setting for any pop star truly worth their salt. So perhaps eyebrows shouldn’t be so archly raised that Elton John, in tandem with civil partner David Furnish, is eager to join the ever-growing celebrity adoption club. As he tells it, Elton became smitten with Lev, a 14-month-old HIV-infected tot, during a visit to the Ukraine to perform at an orphanage in Makeeva.


“David always wanted to adopt a child and I always said no because I am 62 and I think because of the travelling I do and the life I have, maybe it wouldn’t be fair for the child,” said the notoriously shy and retiring poster pensioner for Specsavers. “But having seen Lev today, I would love to adopt him… he has stolen my heart.”


However, as is his wont, John also couldn’t help but muddy the waters by revealing an ulterior motive – the death of his keyboard player Guy Babylon, 52, who suffered a fatal heart attack last week. “What better opportunity to replace someone I lost than to replace him with someone I can give a future to?”


DON’T GO BREAKING MY HEART
Noble if somewhat skewed sentiments and was Elton merely speaking from his heart (directly into a TV camera), when he speculated: “I don’t know what the procedure is to adopt a boy from the Ukraine”? Past form would suggest not, and the kibosh – for now at least – has been delivered by Ukrainian family minister Yuriy Pavlenko.


“Elton John will not be able to adopt, and if he files that request we will unfortunately deny it,” said Pavlenko. “The law is the same for everybody: for a president, for a minister, for Elton John. Foreign citizens who are single have no right to adopt children… and the age difference between the adopter and the child cannot be more than 45 years.”


I’M STILL STANDING
Age could be one of John’s saviours here. Does he really want to join the growing army of aging dads cluttering up the pavements before pram-raiding the Post Office; would he even still have any energy left when Lev turns 16 and he reaches a none too sprightly 77 (if his prodigious past addictions haven’t already foreshortened his life expectancy further). More pointedly, could John even cope with a bigger baby than himself?


When John agreed to let Furnish film him for 12 months for the 1996 fly-on-the-wall documentary Tantrums And Tiaras it had a dual purpose – to propel Furnish’s fledgling film career, and present a frank and insightful account of the life of one of pop’s most notoriously flamboyant superstars – though, of course, with the pair being lovers it wasn’t that frank and insightful, and John will doubtless have vetoed some of its more ugly truths.


All the same, for a notorious control freak, the footage of John playing tennis at a hotel in Antibes was less than flattering. “Yoo-hoo,” shouted a fan, and in an instant John was storming off the court and demanding a private jet to whisk him home. “I’m on fucking holiday,” he screeched. “I’m never coming to the south of France again.” Get her!


Yet this is minor fare to the damning indictment delivered by his therapist, Beechy Colclough, in the same show. “He’s a totally obsessive, compulsive person. He hates himself. He’s happy when he’s playing but he doesn’t believe the audience reaction. If it hadn’t been the alcohol, it would have been the drugs. If it hadn’t been the drugs, it would have been the food. If it hadn’t been the food it would have been the relationships. If it hadn’t been relationships it would have been shopping…”


And John’s not above a hefty bout of self-delusion either. There was the 2006 incident in Taiwan when he flounced around the airport in a powder blue shellsuit, unleashing a torrent of invective at the inevitable paparazzi, the most coherent words being “rude vile pigs”. And more cripplingly, his 1984 marriage to Renate Blauel, a German-born recording engineer. Doomed from the start, John later admitted he’d got spliced amid a drug-induced stupor. “Even though I knew I was gay, I thought this woman was attractive and that being married would cure me of everything wrong in my life… When you take that amount [of drugs and alcohol] you can’t have any relationship.”


THE BITCH IS BACK
To his credit, John has been clean since the early ’90s, and worked tirelessly to establish The Elton John AIDS Foundation – donating hefty sums from his own back pocket to kick-start it – and ultimately earning a knighthood for his philanthropy. Yet he’s still engagingly fond of a public spat, and no other star in the firmament seems to get his goat as much as that other notorious celebrity adopter Madonna.


John first lashed out at the material girl after discovering her nomination for Best Live Act at the Q Awards in 1994. “Anyone who lip-synchs in public on stage when you pay £75 to see them should be shot,” he crowed from the stage. “Madonna, best fucking live act? Fuck off. Since when has lip-synching been live? That’s me off her fucking Christmas card list but do I give a toss? No.”

And while John later apologised for his remarks, it was with a telling caveat: “The reaction to it was so hysterical. It was like I said, ‘I think all gays should be killed or I think Hitler was right’. I just said someone was lip-synching. I’m not afraid to speak my mind. I’m not going to mellow with age. I get more enraged about things as I get older because you see that these injustices go on.”


The war soon subsided but was reignited early last year when muscle-bound Madge staged a scene-stealing Oscar party directly against John’s own fundraising event at LA’s Pacific Design Centre. And while John’s drew a crowd that included Lionel Richie, Simon Cowell, Larry King and Sean Penn; Madonna’s trumped it by attracting A-listers like Tom Cruise, Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore and Penelope Cruz. According to a source for celebrity blogger Perez Hilton: “Elton despises Madonna and this has made things way worse.”


It may seem a little fantastical – and much of John’s adult life has been just that – but is the chubby-cheeked chappy christened Reg Dwight using little Lev as a pint-sized Trojan horse to bash Madonna’s recent adoption of Malawi orphan Mercy? Or has he just scored another monumental own goal? 


Saturday, 5 September 2009

LOOK AT ME




Life thru a lens…


FAME…
As the years clock up, it seems that rarely a few days pass without someone of impact shuttling off this mortal coil. A cynic might argue that this has something to do with the essential seesaw nature of fame being exponentially extended to encompass a litany of E-Z listers from the TV age. He would have a point; yet the cumulative pile-up of these good-looking corpses also takes on a soul-corroding sadness that’s difficult to shake. This week’s case: it’s Siiiimon Dee!


FAME…
Dee’s death resonates with the accelerated nature of fame because his ascendency was as bright as it was ultimately fleeting. Born with the less starry name Cyril Nicholas Henty-Dodd he reinvented himself as the epitome of the ’60s louche dandy (inspiring Mike Myers’ Austin Powers into the bargain); first as the debut presenter on pirate Radio Caroline, and in 1967 as the Jonathan Ross of his age with his equally-well remunerated Saturday chat show Dee Time. Fortuitously sandwiched between Doctor Who and Dixon Of Dock Green it clocked a weekly audience share of 18 million.


FATAL FAME
Fame and its spoils very quickly went to his head, his financial demands leading to a spectacular fall-out with his mentor Bill Cotton and his bumping from the Beeb. Like others since, his transfer to ITV was a resounding flop, and by 1970 the former film star – he had small parts in The Italian Job and Doctor In Trouble – was reduced to signing on for less than a tenner at Fulham Labour Exchange. Yet between three broken marriages and numerous court stints over unpaid debts he was always fashioning a comeback. His wishes were reciprocated with Channel 4’s 2003 tribute night, though a very public spat with art critic/provocateur Brian Sewell marred his last day in the sun.


IT CAN PLAY HIDEOUS TRICKS ON THE BRAIN
Dee’s sad demise puts one in mind of John Updike’s observation: “Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face. As soon as one is aware of being somebody, to be watched and listened to with extra interest, input ceases, and the performer goes blind and deaf in his over animation. One can either see or be seen.” It readily applies to a couple of here-and-now celebs currently paying a heavy price for their notoriety.


BUT STILL I’D RATHER BE FAMOUS
2009 has been a year to forget for Gordon Ramsay. His carefully cultivated potty-mouthed persona may have pushed him up the celebrity rungs with stealth, yet his former Midas touch has been tainted by gross overexposure, relentless empire building and overarching greed. 

THAN RIGHTEOUS
And the blows keep flowing thick and fast. The first chink came with the fallout with former protégé Marcus Wareing (compounded by Wareing’s elevation above Gordy in Harden's London Restaurants 2010). Then the News Of The World tasted blood – reporting an alleged affair with Sarah Symonds; exposing his mythologised football career at Glasgow Rangers as just that; and gleefully twisting the knife after he publicly insulted Australian TV presenter Tracy Grimshaw, likening her to a pig (three words here: pot, kettle, black), prompting even the Aussie PM to wade in and label Ramsay a ‘low-life’. Worse still, Gordon Ramsay Holdings teetered on the brink of administration – bailed out only by reserves from his vast personal wealth.


OR HOLY
Yet it would be a reckless gambler who’d bet against the Kitchen Nightmares star salvaging more than just his professional pride from this wreckage. For all his foibles, the man the yanks dub ‘Chef Ramsay’ is a genuine talent (vouched for by a memorable dinner at his flagship Royal Hospital Road restaurant when Ramsay still roamed the kitchen), well respected in his trade, and with the nous to pull this one out of the fire.


ANY DAY, ANY DAY, ANY DAY
The prognosis is more damning for the celebrity car crash that is Kerry Katona. The former non-singing Atomic Kitten’s career has been in a tailspin since she left the group – a quick précis of her post AK CV reads: failed marriage to Brian McFadden, reality TV star of rapidly diminishing returns since winning 2004’s I'm A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here, axed OK columnist and Iceland TV endorser (replaced by king of jungle vacuity, Peter Andre), bankrupt, ex-client of celebrity fixer Max Clifford (after a disastrous showing on This Morning), on bail for alleged assault of her accountant.


GIVE US YER MONEY!
Yet by all accounts Katona and her partner, Mark Croft, manage to subsist from hoovering up the red top’s readies in exchange for their catalogue of calamity. It’s a collusion only one party can realistically sustain, and it’s hard not to think of Updike’s allegorical words having a literal bearing on the scouser’s publicly crumbling septum. At 29 it’s a moot point whether she’ll get close to Dee’s relatively ripe old age of 74, and all bets are off Katona clawing back some dignity without first extricating herself from the harsh glare of the camera lens.