I like bad behaviour. Always have. Mel will confirm. But not just my own. I have certain expectations of certain classes of people. I expect politicians to be sexually-assaulting, expense-rigging megalomaniacal tossers. I expect footballers to be semi-literate flash-Harrys oozing gold and diamonds, with the number of supercars in their garages higher than their IQ score. If they can spell ‘IQ’. I expect estate agents to be bastards, doctors to be patronising, nurses to wiggle round in little blue dresses and Chelsea fans to be horrible. And I expect rock stars to be rock stars.

Perhaps I just like confirmation of stereotypes. So when they are confirmed it pleases me. And the new almost-authorised biography of Eric Clapton has just been released. Almost authorised because Eric (as I call him; like what else?) gave the writer access to all his diaries and contacts and phone books and then later withdrew his permission. But by that time all the interviews were complete, the notes taken, the damage done. Publish and be damned.

The author is Philip Norman, the world superstar of rock bios. He ‘did’ Buddy Holly, Elvis, John Lennon, Mick Jagger, Elton John and others. Now Eric. And although I read very few biographies, I might break the trend and check this out. Not just because I love Eric Clapton, guitarist, singer, songwriter, but because he was undoubtedly the baddest of bad boys.

He crashed 3 Ferraris. Avoided a helicopter crash by changing seats in the last seconds. Lost his 4 year old son in a tragic accident on a New York hotel balcony, spent 10k a week on heroin for 2 years whilst putting away 2 bottles of brandy every day (well you can’t live on heroin alone, ffs) and had over 1000 one-night stands. He also stole his best friend’s (George Harrison’s) wife.

So what’s to admire? How about that at 72 years old, he’s still alive and still playing the guitar better than anyone else around. He should, by rights, have died at 27, the chosen age for lifestyle-challenged rock’n’rollers through history. Yet he has endured. And all you really have to do is listen to the opening notes of ‘Layla’ (written for Patti Boyd, George’s then wife), or play ‘while my guitar gently weeps’ and if you don’t have tears in your eyes then you’re not human. You’re a fucking ‘bot!!! Something I’ve suspected for a while now…

My Philip Norman Story.

I don’t know him well but our daughters were and still are friends and I’ve known him indirectly for 20 years. He’s a very very quiet man. A thoughtful, clever, intellectual man. A man of words. Which he speaks very softly. His lovely wife produced the movie ‘Into the Void’. They’re clever people.

I went to pick up the daughter one night from their house about 11. Knocked on the door, no reply. Knocked again, nothing. So, being Hampstead I had to walk around for half an hour to get any kind of phone signal and eventually I called this mild, gentle, bookish man. Who answered the phone thus, in his mild, gentle, bookish way: “IF YOU DON’T STOP FUCKING CALLING THIS NUMBER I’M GONNA CALL THE FUCKING POLICE; I’VE FUCKING HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BOLLOCKS NOW GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE AND DON’T FUCKING CALL BACK EVERRRRR!!!!”

Nice. Apparently they’d had some prank caller problems and he’d already called just before me. But still…

Happy Monday

A xxxx