Last night I wandered accidentally into a televisual car crash. I could feel my brain weeping, my blood boiling, my senses of desolation and righteous hatred locked into combat… Melvyn Bragg interviewing George Michael. So, I now know that there are certain algebraic truths about art and culture.
Gay = vital, Gay = outsider ergo vital, perceived victim = justification for turgid product. These algorithms only work when you have spent the first half of your career lying about who you are, choosing only to reveal truth, or an alternative lie, when it is financially propitious to do so.
zero charisma x cash + marketing + petted indulgence = airtime… I posted a while ago about the fact that sometimes a farmer will put a donkey into a field with a race horse, solely to prevent the superior animal from feeling alone. Final equation: George Michael = Fucking Donkey.
Listen, about a hundred years ago I got some money paid to me for appearing in a Wham! video. I was paid £35. During the day George would not look up from the floor,would not look anyone in the eye, and had to have his hair washed no less than six times in order to manage his curls. There you go, twenty minutes between takes to get the blow drier out. For the record, Andrew Ridgley (sp? the spell check just suggested ‘ridicule’) wandered around the studio lot all through lunch looking for someone to talk to, but the extras just kept turning their backs and giggling – in that withering way that only club culture can do so well, dahling.