My Booky Wook 2 (2 page)
Now that is a bloody good way to relax yourself after a gig, and I for one would like to commend not only Freddie, for his commitment to promiscuity and his ability to transform the experience into a thrilling pop hit, but also the unsung hero, the tour manager who had to source eighty lads up for a bumming so that Freddie could, in his own words, “have a ball”. In the absence of Freddie’s excellent entourage, however, and the decadence of Rio, a meeting with Kate Moss is a lovely way to celebrate after a show.
Kate and Sadie await in the tiny, musty, black-box theatre, black paint and atticy drapes, fag-burned seats and a lighting rig than can be adjusted by reaching upward sans ladder. My mate and Radio 2-show sidekick Matt Morgan is waiting there too with Ian the Gruff, northern promoter, the pair of ’em ransacking their limited small-talk closets for the biggest inconsequential natter of their lives. “Oh, hello Russell, that was a good one,” says someone, but not Kate, who is smoking, ignoring the regulation that you mustn’t smoke, along with the unwritten rule that you ought compliment people after a gig instead of driving juggernauts through their yearning hearts. If you go and see a stand-up comedian or any kind of performer, let me tell you what they want: they want specific compliments to actual bits of material you’ve seen, not just a generic “it was good”, no. They need specific, positive criticism. “You know that bit where you talked about Freddie Mercury bumming Brazilians, that was heavenly” – that is the sort of compliment you ought offer me should we meet and discuss this book.
It becomes clear that we are not about to conduct a post-show salon, the five of us – me, Matt (highly gaff prone in a pressure situation), Ian (incredibly brusque and clumsily blunt around new people), Sadie (shy), and Kate Moss (icon of perfection) – when Kate says, “We’re going to Annabel’s night club to a charity auction. The top lot is a kiss. With me. Philip Green the Top Shop entrepreneur is bidding. Currently it stands at £40,000. Would you like to come?”
Obviously I want to come. At this stage I’ll do anything, I don’t feel I’m in a position to negotiate. I’ve just performed for her, her own personal jester (Depeche Mode – fancy a remix? Your own personal jester. Someone to make you smile in medieval style. Reach out and touch japes. I’m riffing), if she now wants to attend an auction where billionaires vie for the treasure of her kiss I’m not about to shake my head and suggest a kebab. I don’t know why I assumed low status so swiftly, I mean she came to see me, right? I could’ve played it cool, but as an unbelievably eloquent yob once said to me before punching me in the face, “You can’t play the hero if you don’t know the lines.” So Ian is dispensed with – he was never gonna cut it with the in crowd, even the out crowd find him a bit annoying – and we order a cab.
Every so often, in the back of the cab, she receives a call on her ever-chiming phone. “The bidding’s gone up – it’s fifty grand now.” God. As I look into her eyes, this woman who’s just come to see me in a 50-seater venue, there is literally now an auction that has gone into tens of thousands of pounds for a momentary kiss.
Utterly unfamiliar, we un-jam from the car. Me and Matt have exchanged a few glances, acknowledging the madness of our new circumstances, all the while trying to act normal. But me and Matt ain’t normal, we’re weird – even when doing something utterly mundane like going for a dental check-up or feeding a cat we act freaky – so when descending the stairs into Annabel’s glamour palace with a Goddess there’s a real possibility of meltdown.
Posh people, people you don’t recognise but who you know are important, are everywhere. People who themselves know they’re very important, have always known, jostle for an audience with Kate, and soon Matt and me are just loose in this place so foreign to me it might as well have been made of edible jewels and run by an arrogant dormouse. I think Jemima Khan was there, and Philip Green, not people I recognised but that’s my fault. It’s certainly not their fault I don’t recognise them. “You’d recognise them if you knew what to recognise, you poor suburban, arriviste twit, wandering around Annabel’s not knowing who to recognise, you better act like you recognise them; you’re only making it worse for yourself.”
The auction has come to a climax at £70,000. Philip Green nobly decides to donate his kiss to Jemima Khan. So adorning the front cover of the London Evening Standard the next day is a photograph of Kate Moss kissing Jemima Khan, a kiss that I’d witnessed, and seeing it rendered on the front page the next day makes me relive the moment. It felt like the Standard was addressing me personally – “And do you remember last night?” the front page seemed to be saying, “Remember her?” – and of course, for once, I did.
Matt is not a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, so he disappears into chinking of glasses and glinting of sequins. I am, so I have to conduct this operation without an anaesthetic. SHE CAME TO SEE ME, I remind myself – amidst the glitz and the stink of inherent unobtainability is the inescapable fact that she must want me here. Terrifying though it is, I resolve to go and talk to her. I mean she is just a bird, right? From Croydon with its trams and Nestlé headquarters. She’s a bird from south London. I have chatted up and seduced birds from south London before, and by jingo I can do it now. Denied vodka, I gulp down the intoxicating air and walk over to where she is, led by the glow.
Any chair on which she sits becomes a throne ennobled by the presence of her arse. That’s why they need her on the front of Vogue and next to handbags and holding lipstick, because her magic is transferable. I approach and then, against all odds and everything my life has taught me until then, an anomaly occurs. The universe tears and light bursts through and falls upon me and her gaze follows, she parts the crowd around her like Moses and indicates with an eyelash that she wants to talk to me. I follow her to an empty corner of the empty club. It is all empty now. Phantoms dance and drink, but all that’s real is her. To have her attention is spellbinding. You have to go into overdrive to sustain normalcy, to be normal around her is a tremendous effort – she exists beyond her own being, photographed to endorse and beautify products. The potency of her beauty is so great that anything she touches will become beautiful, be it a wristwatch or a blouse or a fucking shampoo, if it’s near her it is by association beautiful, so tonight I am beautiful, I am rendered beautiful by her company.
The tricky thing with chatting up the world’s most beautiful woman is – WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU SAY TO HER THAT SHE HASN’T HEARD UMPTEEN TIMES?
INT. NIGHT.RUSSELLYou’re pretty.KATEYes, it’s been mentioned.
You could try something from the bible for wantaway onanists, The Game by Neil Strauss, but “negging” – the practice of saying something mildly negative to your “target” – seems disrespectful, and if you “ignore her”, the void you leave will be filled in an instant by a dozen willing suitors.
Somehow amidst the clanging of my mind, the overtures of her beauty and the accompanying social impact, I manage to be vaguely funny. “I’ll just treat her like a normal girl,” I think. But before I can impose any sort of control over the situation she suggests we go back to Sadie’s. Matt and, of course, given the venue, Sadie come too. The cab is pursued by paparazzi on mopeds. Maybe ten of them, an unwelcome convoy, trail the cab like a dangling haemorrhoid. That was the first time I’d been followed by photographers and it’s not annoying at first but kind of exciting, it heightens the idea that what you’re doing is important, that you yourself are important. After a while it becomes bloody awful, relentless and, typically, attached to a tabloid perspective of yourself with which you whole-heartedly disagree, but for now it adds to the romance.
When we arrive at Sadie’s house in Belsize Park – a real-life Stella Street where David Walliams also lives as well as Bob Hoskins and Derek Jacobi – it is decided that Matt should walk Kate into the house so that there is no photo of me and her together. This gives me hope that we do have something to hide, but also makes me jealous of Matt as he gets to walk up the driveway with her. Within the beautiful house we flirt for a while, then under some mutual pretence of looking at hung photographs of Sadie’s deplorably gorgeous children we wander off. We are alone.
The rest of the evening was like a beautiful road accident. I passed in and out of consciousness, scored by sirens, sporadically lit by flashing blue and red light, time bending. On a sofa in a world made only of Kate Moss’s face. I cannot recall a single word of the conversation that took place; for all I know we communicated in whale song.
Drifting closer and closer together, my heart pounding, of course, but also my liver and lungs and feet. Things that don’t have pulses join the unwelcome percussion. Paul Simon thinks my vital organs may be a lost African tribe and considers recording a follow-up to Graceland in my colon. Eventually there is no more universe between our lips and so we kiss, and yes, on one level I’m enjoying the kiss, but my mind is screaming, screeching, body-popping, lambada-ing, every dance-craze-there’s-ever-been-ing. Playground fads are revisited: yo-yos, hula hoops, pogs, the works, every exciting moment from childhood condensed into a single kiss. “Kiss properly, stop thinking about pogs, you idiot, get on with this kiss, stop thinking how this is going to sound in a book and get on with the kiss.”
So I get on with the kiss, and I think it’s a good kiss, but of course there’s all this analysis going on simultaneously. I’ve got to get her out the house. Ludicrously I say to her, “Do you want to come back to mine … Kate Moss?”
We get a minicab – from a number I had in my phone. Some bloke comes round in a beat-up car that stinks of fags, there’s a blanket on the back seat. Kate Moss gets in, I get in, we sit in the back seat and drive the short journey geographically but a long journey in terms of interior design style and property value from Sadie Frost’s in Belsize Park to mine in Gospel Oak – what Matt calls “not quite Hampstead”. A garret, digs. Mismatched pans and a duvet that was there when I moved in.
I make her tea. There’s a bit where she’s in my garden, there’s a bit where she’s sitting with my cat and he doesn’t care that she’s all mysterious and wonderful. I know he’s a cat but he should recognise that she has transcended the everyday. To be in her presence in my house doesn’t make sense, it is a baffling fusion of the real and the imagined. It’s like looking into the garden and seeing Vegas Elvis mowing the lawn, or going into the kitchen and finding Elvis in the Elvis Comeback Special ’68 suit cooking up beans, or going into the bedroom and there’s golden jacket Elvis from ’54 before he cut his hair, before the army cut off his balls. Elvis, lying on my bed looking into my eyes. Elvis Presley has entered the building.
Of course my mind will not shut up and let me enjoy the moment, there is an endless incessant narrative throughout it. Which is a shame because what I enjoy most about encounters with women is relief from the endless buzzing of needless thought, the neurological chaos, the Tokyo of neurons smashing into each other, the fizz, the buzz, the clatter abating, the hive of my mind quietening, but not that night.
The next day, ludicrously, I had to get up and live my normal life. Filming sketches with Matt and dopey Gareth Roy for our MTV chat show, 1 Leicester Square, dressing up as an old Michael Winner-type man and Matt as a Nosferatu baby.
Life begins again each day anew, and when you awake you could be anybody. During the hiatus that each new day brings, I think firstly “Who am I?” and secondly “What was I doing yesterday?” My mind begins its programme and it seems more preposterous than ever – “Well, Russell, yesterday you went to bed with Kate Moss.”
“That’s an interesting notion, brain, and I’m going to humour you and open my eyes, but if it proves false I won’t trust you again and may go back on drugs.”
I open just one eye at first, because my brain’s broadcast seems so unlikely, but one eye is sufficient because, brighter than the daylight flooding through the curtains that I should have replaced because they were too short, is the raging dawn of a sleeping Kate Moss, the illumination warring with the daybreak – intimidated by her radiance, the sun disappears behind a cloud. Her hair fans over the pillow like a peacock’s tail.
I open the other eye. Kate Moss is indeed in the bed, and for a minute I feel like I’ve murdered her. “Oh my god, what have I done, don’t panic, don’t panic.” I get up and back away like a butler on his first day with the Queen, not daring to turn from her for a moment. Like a cartoon drunk, I rub my eyes and peer at my bottle – it’s only mouthwash. It is definitely Kate Moss. Not the Listerine. It’s getting late. I’m going to have to leave for work, where I must do pop video reviews with Matt. What a stupid life.
I leave the house, the cat, the plants, the angel sleeping in my bed and walk out into a different London. I have been given patronage by Kate Moss and I can hear the gossip columns being typed, the photos from the previous night being processed and printed. Before I’ve seen a newspaper I know that I’ll be in them. With a kiss she has issued what decades of hard work could not – fame. Bigger, though, than the realisation of a lifetime’s ambition is the chaos she has left in my belly. I am unable to distinguish between this feeling of insane joy, this blissful disarray and love. It feels like love.
On my way home from a day of elation and delirium I chat to Nik Linnen, my partner, my manager, my outsourced rationale. I tell him what I’ve just told you, that I think I’m in love. With Kate Moss, or the idea of Kate Moss – which to my brain is indistinguishable from actual Kate Moss. A conveniently reductive device for dividing women who spend the night in your house is those who make the bed and those who don’t. If a woman makes the bed, the insinuation is that she cares for you, that she wants to take care of you. If she doesn’t, it doesn’t make her a bad person, it just means she’s busy and has to get out and on with her life and has no time for sweet, domestic ritual.
“If she’s made the bed, Nik, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Don’t get yer hopes up, mate,” he replies in his Manc twang. “It ain’t important, you’re already investing too much in it – saying you love her an’ that – you don’t even know her.”