Saturday Night With Steve StrangeThat Steve Strange doesn’t half sound Welsh when he gets going! Worse than Bonnie Tyler, and that’s saying something.
There’s a lot of Welsh pop stars, when you think about it - Steve Strange, Bonnie Tyler, Shaking Stevens, Tom Jones, Mary Hopkin, Elvis Preseli. I’ve been thinking about branching out into a bit of pop singing myself, you know, on account of the lush golden tones of my singing voice which, as anyone will tell you, really has to be heard to be believed.
I did this interview with Steve Strange yesterday, see, for Kicks magazine. So it turns out that I am now one of the first ‘in the know’ on the next big fashion craze. Just when you thought that double-breasted suits were all the trend, it turns out that all that Kid Creole stuff is last year’s thing. Hobbits. That’s the coming craze, apparently.
Steve was doing a photo shoot when I interviewed him, all kitted out in hobbit-style, which, as far as I can see is pretty much indistinguishable from a scarecrow - except for the slap, that is, of which young Strange was wearing a goodly amount. He’s a martyr to the makeup, if you ask me. As, incidentally, is Shirley Bassey, who is yet another big Welsh singer star, though somehow I can’t see her sacrificing the sequins for the pleasure of dressing up as a hobbit.
But I digress. I was about to tell you the strange story of how my friend Emma met Senior Slinkini, the contortionist. She was on the floor at the time which, if the truth be told, she all too frequently is, under a table in the Purple Pussycat, which, as I believe I have mentioned previously in my journals, is a nocturnal drinking establishment of somewhat dubious repute - when all of a sudden a leg appeared, followed in quick succession by an arm, another arm, a head and another leg. All the above appendages, it turned out, belonged to one Senor Slinkini ‘the Spanish Contortionist’.
Emma tells me (and, given her breath of worldly experience, I confess to being surprised by the revelation) that she has never had a liaison with a contortionist, Spanish or otherwise, so her interest was, quite naturally, piqued. Well, to cut a long story short, she picked herself up off the floor, quaffed a couple of banana daiquiris, fluttered her mascara-heavy lids at him and whisked him away in the general direction of her flat.
But, as someone who’s name I forget once said, the best planned lays of mice and men gang often gang awry (or some such nonsense) and thus it was to be for Emma. For no sooner had she dragged the aforementioned Spanish contortionist into the public highway and thrust out a shapely thigh by way of attracting the attention of a passing cabbie, when who should stagger out of a nearby doorway but Emma’s boyfriend!
Ah, but now you are asking yourself to which boyfriend I refer, Emma being well-known for getting through boyfriends at a brisk rate of knots.
Well, I’d like to tell you but it’ll have to wait. I’ve got this article to write up for Kicks so, much to my chagrin (a French word, meaning ‘pissed-bloody-offedness’), my Saturday night will be spend cloistered indoors here in my luxury Kentish Town hovel, listening to a crackly cassette of Steve Strange wombling on about bloody hobbits.