I went to a party in about 1986 at me mate Dom’s new flat. And I was the most famous person there (well, I certainly knew who I was, and how important I was). Until George Michael walked in. He was really famous by that time. Really famous. Wham’s finest player. He wasn’t gay yet. And we knew he was going to be there; there were murmurings. I was waiting for the spotlights to go on, the stars to shine brighter and that larger-than-life SuperStar to leap into the room, dressed in tight, purple satin shorts and a black leather biker jacket; all million-watt smile and blow-wave with that Mediterranean tan and Star Quality.

What actually happened was a group of totally average guys walked in and at the back was a surprisingly little dark-haired guy in plain jeans and a grey shirt with bad skin and a look like he wanted to be somewhere else. In fact he looked like he pretty much always wanted to be somewhere else. And that was my ‘George Michael Story’. We became best mates, went out looking at frocks together, blah, blah, blah and loads and loads of drugs. Brilliant times. Right.

Yet I loved (in a blokey, fan-ny, music-appreciating kind’a way, obviously) him. Careless Whisper, Faith, Carma Camelia… sorry, wrong George, but I loved the right George. Loved the voice. And yet he’s become 2016’s latest superstar victim. He died on Christmas day in Delhi. Oh, sorry, I was in Delhi, he died in Buckinghamshire.

And now we’re in Jaipur. Me and Mel. Not me and George. Obviously. And its a fantastic place. And you think its civilised and beautiful and its kind’a different to Delhi and Agra because there’s big, modern, fabulous buildings and wide, tree-lined avenues and its clean and… and… civilised. Then you go to Old Jaipur and you’re back in the ‘madness’. India is an ancient Sanskrit word that means ‘insane drivers’. Or just ‘insane’ for short.

Oddly I love the madness. Its more Indian. More ‘real’. And although you feel at times that the next person who pushes a ‘Jaipur Guide’ book into your face, or an elephant carrier bag, elephant key rings or coloured necklaces, you’re just gonna explode and either punch him or shout HOW MANY FUCKING ELEPHANT FRIDGE MAGNETS DO I FUCKING NEEEEED???? you instead smile politely and bite the item. Or just ignore them. Its their life, their world, their job.

I own 12 elephant key rings. Currently.

The Amber Fort here is spectacular. Though I must confess to being a bit Maharajah’ed out at the moment. Tomorrow we fly to Udaipur. Maybe I need just a few more elephant head-scarves.

Happy Tuesday (I think)

A xxxx