Simon Le Bon's Lips
And speaking of Limahl (which, if you’ve been paying attention, I was doing only recently), I can’t help wondering if the pout is natural or if, on the contrary, his lips have been surgically enhanced.Mind you, I always used to be suspicious of the Duran chaps too. But I am now in a position to state categorically and without any to-ing and fro-ing, that the Le Bon lips (not to mention the Rhodes and Taylor ones) have not benefited from the surgeon’s scalpel. In fact, in spite of what you may think if you’ve only seen Duran Duran in photographs, their lips are not as eerily juicy as they appear. It’s the camera that produces that effect. No, really, not a word of a lie - it’s an amazing sight to see.
There they are one moment - Le Bon, Rhodes and the various Taylors - all lounging around with lips that you’d pass in the street without a second glance and then, out of the corner of their eyes, they catch sight of a camera being raised and, snap! their lips visibly inflate before your very eyes. The speed with which they can go from mouths at ease to the full cheeks-sucked-in and lips-thrust-out pucker is a sight to be seen. I don’t know if you watch those Jacques Cousteau programmes or, depending on your age, maybe you can remember the undersea adventures of Hans and Lotte Hass? If you do, you will no doubt be acquainted with the sight of the puffer fish swelling up and bristling with spines at the merest prod of a flipper, snorkel or harpoon gun. Well, thus it is with Duran Duran. Only the required stimulus is not a harpoon gun, it is, a camera. And their lips aren’t, of course, covered with spines as is the skin of the puffer fish. But, apart from those trivial differences, the similarity between the lips and the fish is remarkable.
But I digress. It was of the luscious Limahl that I had intended to talk. He of the two-tone hairdo. As I was saying only a while ago, I have been thinking of going a bit on the blonder side myself. Well, now I have. Not the full Duluxe Dog, I have to say. But a good deal more than just a few streaks. It’s a sort of golden ash at the sides with a blonde dangly piece flopping down in the front.
And speaking of blonde pieces... did you see that photo in the paper this morning: Freddie Fischer! Well, it wasn’t the most flattering picture I’ve ever seen. To say he looked rat-arsed would be to do rats an injustice! He had his arm around that mouthy blonde piece from the telly. Shirley something. You know, the one who’s meant to be his glamorous assistant. They do quizzes and stuff. On a Saturday, I think. Well, according to the paper, there was some party over the weekend and she was caught assisting him with more than his quizzes!
I have to say I find that very difficult to believe. I mean, talk about camp! Stick Frankie Fischer in a field and you’d have boy scouts singing songs around him in under five minutes: gingling their goolies or whatever it is that they do. That’s how camp Frankie Fischer is.
‘Ey, I wonder if that was the party that Welsh Willy was trying to get me to go to? That’d have been a laugh! Wish I’d gone now. Not that Frankie Fischer is my favourite TV personality. Not by a long way. Now, if it’d have been Larry Grayson giving a party, I might have gone. Or Bruce Forsyth. If it’d have been Les Dawson, I’d have been in their like a shot. Or Rolf Harris. But Frankie Fischer...? Oh, I don’t know. Somehow I have a feeling one of his parties would be all Mantovani and vol au vents...
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