Murder Most Fab

by Julian Clary

  Bernard basked in the glory that came with producing a hit show and finding the hottest new face of the year.

  Those were our happiest times together — if you can call it happiness. If you can call it togetherness, come to that. I was so excited by what was happening, and so grateful, that I was sometimes reasonably nice to Bernard, though with hindsight this might well have been a mistake. The thrill he got from making me a hit soon turned to possessiveness. He seemed to be with me all the time. At the studio he had a legitimate reason to hover at my side, and while I was on a steep learning curve I was glad of his advice and instruction. He watched me with an eagle eye, making sure I was always presented in the best possible way, with the best camera angles and lighting. But it wasn’t rocket science and my natural, relaxed style was something I myself brought to the show. It wasn’t down to him or even the original concept.

  Out of the studio, he was desperate to be with me, showing off his discovery. He wanted to come with me to every interview, every photographic shoot and every personal appearance. That wasn’t so bad, but he also wanted to come to clubs and parties as well, cramping my style horribly. Suddenly, wherever I went, I was fêted, spoilt and able to pull with even greater ease than before, sometimes several times a night — but it wasn’t the same when Bernard was there, red-faced, balding and generating static in his nylon trousers as he burnt with jealousy. He still clung to the belief that I was his boyfriend — and even suggested moving in together. I managed to quash that idea at once, saying I couldn’t possibly leave Catherine, but I slept with him on occasion to keep him happy. Of course I was grateful for the opportunity he had given me, but I began to feel as if I’d be indebted to him for ever.

  Being famous was turning out to be great fun. The only thing spoiling it was Bernard.

  Shout!’s initial six-week stint was quickly extended to three months, by which time I was a bona fide celebrity. My fame grew and grew, and I was soon a tabloid favourite, with stories about me appearing every day. Shots of me getting into the back of a taxi after a night out at a trendy Soho nightclub, or mingling backstage with the hottest bands, seemed to confirm my ‘cool’ celebrity status. I was thrilled when the press called me a ‘TV star’ for the first time, and indignant if they failed to thereafter. I was invited to music-awards shows, first nights and exclusive parties. Initially I went with Bernard, but he was not the most photogenic escort and was frequently edited out of the picture or, worse, pushed aside by ambitious starlets when the flashbulbs popped. When this happened I could expect punishment by pouts and sarcasm.

  Once, as we were leaving a restaurant, we met Rachel Swooney, star of a tacky ITV show called Bitches At Brunch, going in. She squeaked with excitement and threw her arms round me just as the paparazzi took their shots. Lunchtime celebs were generally to be avoided if there were cameras about. Even I knew that.

  ‘Opportunistic little mongrel!’ seethed Bernard, in the back of the taxi. ‘She’s never even met you before. Scheming Welsh cow. She’s got a mouth the size of Tiger Bay. And those teeth! The only work she’ll ever get is if they decide to do a remake of Jaws.’

  Poor Rachel — she didn’t deserve such abuse but I knew from experience that the worst thing I could do was defend her.

  ‘The publicity’s good for the show. Calm yourself,’ I said.

  The next day the Mirror had a picture of Rachel slobbering all over me with the caption: ‘Swooning for Johnny! Rachel and Johnny nuzzle up together outside the Ivy. Is this the latest showbiz couple?’

  As if!

  I still felt obliged to have sex with Bernard from time to time, though I was doing my best to get out of this grisly chore. He was my producer, after all, with the power to pull the rug from under me, and if I declined too often, or professed more headaches than were believable, he just might replace me, unlikely as it seemed.

  Bernard enjoyed the fact that I was lusted after by most of the female population. When I was voted top heart-throb in Smash Hits, he was delighted. ‘Though it’s the throb of your cock that interests me, dear heart,’ he purred.

  As long as I contained his jealousy as best I could, and sorted out his needs occasionally, all was well. I had enough of a life apart from him to keep me happy. I loved going out, drinking and taking drugs. I was popular and fashionable, and I was whisked into all the chic nightclubs, frequently exiting through the back door with a handsome youth at closing time. I had my own driver, whose job it was to see I got home at night. Roy was always there to keep me out of trouble. He was discretion personified. ‘I’ve seen it all before, mate,’ he told me. ‘I used to drive Gloria Hunniford.’

  In interviews I became coy when journalists asked if I had a girlfriend. Officially I was looking for the right girl still, and the trick was to keep the tabloids at a fever pitch of speculation. Ruby, my co-host on the show, was happy to be my beard. (She’d known the score since she’d seen one of boy band Big Thing leaving my dressing room and spotted some jism on his shoes.) Catherine once arranged for her to be ‘papped’ leaving my flat at dawn so in the eyes of the general public my heterosexuality was beyond doubt.

  The following year, with the second series of Shout! our ratings went through the roof. Catherine took her role as my manager seriously and worked hard at her smart new office in Fitzrovia. She read my scripts, helped me choose photographs for publicity and fantasized with me about the almost tangible excitement of what the future might hold. She learnt to deal with any request and made sure I featured in the right magazines. She was audacious when it came to discussing fees for colour spreads in the glossies, plucking figures out of thin air, doubling them and playing one editor off against another. The money was flooding in. I’d had no idea how lucrative it was to be well-known. You could get ten thousand for leaving the house in the morning, if you were canny — and Catherine was.

  ‘I’ve got a vision, Cowboy,’ she said one day. ‘I really am an award-winning manager. I’m going to have to put my commission up, I’m afraid. I’m worth twenty-five per cent. And I mean of the gross, in case you’re wondering.’

  When it came to my interesting sex life, there was the occasional mishap but Catherine always smoothed things over. One Saturday night I was pictured leaving Heaven nightclub with a Puerto Rican hunk in a leather harness. Questions were asked; she countered them with a fabricated kiss-and-tell from an air stewardess with whom I had allegedly spent a steamy twenty minutes in the lavatory on a flight to Berlin. I was an insatiable but considerate lover, the young lady told the News of the World readers as she posed provocatively in underwear and jauntily cocked airline cap. I couldn’t possibly be gay. ‘Johnny D is all man, I can tell you,’ she was quoted as saying. There was a handsome fee for this fictional take, and I divided the money with the air stewardess. She got some cash, my reputation was restored, and everyone was happy.

  The next week Catherine ensured that Ruby and I were seen walking hand in hand through St James’s Park, and an ‘insider’ said we were trying to work things out.

  In truth, of course, I was reaping the rewards of my sexy celebrity status in the gay clubs of London or wherever else I found myself. My sex drive was as demanding as it had ever been, but men were the beneficiaries, not air stewardesses. I needed the same sexual fixes as I had when I was for rent. I was quite a catch before, but with the added aphrodisiac of fame I had the pick of any nightclub or party. The more famous I became, the more cute boys were queuing up for my attentions, and I wasn’t about to disappoint anyone. Experienced as I was in such matters, I had the staying power and equipment to satisfy more than one lucky lad per night.

  It was a dangerous game, perhaps, but I had little choice. I couldn’t come out without risking everything — gay presenters were not as voguish then as they are today, particularly for children’s shows — but I didn’t feel too threatened. Kiss-and-tell stories were rare — too much was at stake for all parties — and in the small gay community, the avaricious queen who sold his story o
f a celebrity fuck was unlikely to get a pat on his perfectly toned back.

  Even so, in retrospect, I was a tad reckless. Dark rooms, drugs, orgies — I was no stranger to any of them. In fact, I had a season ticket. I often turned up for work trashed from the previous evening but hung-over sleepy eyes only enhanced the come-to-bed subtext of my performance. I looked like I’d been having sex all night long — and I had. But even if mine was the name on everyone’s lips, I was ostensibly a children’s television presenter, so nothing could be too overt.

  Then, at the Brit awards, Modesty’s people suddenly announced that I, and my roving film crew, were to be whisked to the megastar’s inner sanctum for a very exclusive interview.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Catherine, uncharacteristically flustered. She looked stunning that night, in a strapless red-silk number, and was drawing admiring glances. ‘This is it. The big one! Get it right and you’re made for life. I’ll do the introductions. Do you think she’d be amused if I “strike a pose” when I walk in? Do you think it’s all right to look her in the eye?’

  ‘For God’s sake, you don’t have to walk backwards,’ I snapped, wondering where I could get a line of cocaine to buck myself up for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I didn’t have to kook far: Anita was loitering ten steps behind me, her bag of goodies at the ready. I had never been star-struck before; my boy-next-door manner had won over everyone from Diana Ross to Rick Astley. But Modesty was the most famous pop superstar in the world — with a fearsome reputation: she ate interviewers for breakfast.

  Catherine trotted along beside me importantly as we were led backstage, saying loudly, ‘I’m Johnny’s manager,’ whenever anyone caught her eye, but once we got closer to the inner sanctum, her way was barred by several security men. Ten minutes later the film crew and I were ushered into a muslin-draped igloo where Modesty sat waiting, small and serene, perched on a high stool, beautifully lit from behind.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘I keep hearing about you wherever I go.’

  ‘You’re not unknown in my circles, either. What is it you’re promoting today? Book, CD, fashion range or perfume?’

  ‘I like your approach. Very fresh. Very Barbara Walters but without the hairspray. Have you been up all night being a bad boy?’

  I had, yes. With one of her backing singers I’d met at a party, and a Nigerian taxi driver. The little devil had obviously told his boss about our free trip home to the hotel and the marathon night of sex and drugs that followed. Modesty was playing a game, letting me know that she was party to my secret.

  ‘Up somewhere all night, yes. Now, enough about me. I suppose what my viewers want to know is — what’s it like being Modesty?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fun. But complicated sometimes.’

  ‘Do you need to sack people every so often to assert your authority?’

  ‘Not especially, no. But they have to understand that I live on planet Modesty. That’s my choice. I employ some to ensure my bubble never bursts and others to stop me taking myself too seriously. It’s a balancing act, that’s for sure.’

  She was warming to me, I thought. She understood my cynical line of questioning, my lack of nerves, and was responding, I thought, honestly and intelligently. I’d try to push things a bit further.

  ‘Lately you seem to be getting involved in world matters —peace, famine, plights and tragedies that beset the planet. Do you think that’s appropriate for a pop star? Aren’t you just there to entertain?’

  Modesty pouted. ‘Such insolence! I shall have you horsewhipped!’

  We both laughed. Then she looked at me earnestly. ‘Listen, Johnny. I started out as an ambitious dancer in New York. Things went well, then got better. I didn’t know I was going to find myself in a position of great influence. What am I supposed to do? Churn out disco hits and keep smiling? If I’m on a world tour, performing to X million people, isn’t it a good opportunity to make a few points about which I believe wholeheartedly? Where’s the harm in that?’

  ‘No harm at all. I guess music’s the perfect medium.’

  ‘I don’t know about perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot more effective than politics seems to be. Sex would be too exhausting, as I’m sure you’d agree.’ She had laughter in her eyes.

  ‘You’re a naughty Modesty,’ I said.

  ‘I like you. Are you up for adoption?’

  ‘Sadly, no. But you can always be my stalker if you want.’

  She gave a good, healthy belly-laugh, looked straight into the camera and said, ‘Johnny D is hot!’

  ‘Are you flirting with me?’ I asked.

  ‘Flirting?’ said Modesty. ‘You’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever clapped eyes on! And I’ve toured Brazil three times!’

  ‘I’m glazing over, I’m afraid,’ I said as one of Modesty’s aides made vigorous wind-it-up signals at me. ‘How much longer can you go on? Aren’t you worried about becoming the Vera Lynn of pop?’

  It was unheard of for anyone to be so irreverent to one of the most famous superstars of the day, but I felt I could get away with it.

  ‘I’d be more than happy with such a title,’ she said. ‘Whoever the hell she is.’

  The aides were apoplectic now, insisting we finish the interview at once. Then she grinned at me and said, ‘See ya, Johnny. It’s been fun.’

  ‘Bye,’ I said.

  Outside, Catherine grabbed me.

  ‘What was she like? What was she like?’ she hissed. I shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Nice.’

  The interview was a coup for me, the programme and the BBC. The clip of Modesty saying, ‘Johnny D is hot!’ with her special brand of knowing sexiness was used to trail the show and as a kind of visual jingle throughout the series. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? My sex appeal and cool-dude status were confirmed. If Modesty had said it, it must be true. The interview was declared one of the most revealing and sensational things to come out of that year’s Brits. The press adored me. I was, without a shadow of doubt, the man of the moment. I was all the rage.

  The only person who wasn’t hugely impressed was my mother. Without a television and never reading the papers, she had no inkling of just how famous I’d become. She did notice that everyone in the village was being a lot nicer to her, all of a sudden, and asking when I might come to visit, but she couldn’t fathom why.

  I didn’t let on to her the extent of my transformation. I wanted to keep one little part of my life untouched by the excitement and madness that had engulfed the rest.

  One night I was out on the town with a popular girl band of the time (five Liverpudlians called Rough, riding the crest of their success and on the hunt for Premier Division footballers before the moment passed). We were roped off from the hoi polloi so that we didn’t have to sulky ourselves with them but could enjoy our drugs and champagne in peace. Peace of a sort —Rough squealed and squawked and made raucous jokes as they got drunker and drunker while I smiled but wondered if there wasn’t more fun to be had on the other side of the red velvet rope.

  Then, to my astonishment, I saw a face I recognized. A man was talking to the burly bouncer guarding the VIP section, gesturing towards our table. He was handsome with short blonde hair. He was wearing — unusually for the kind of nightclub we were in — a suit of a distinctly Savile Row cut.

  My heart began pounding and my palms were damp. ‘Oh, my God,’ I breathed. ‘Tim!’

  “Oo?’ said Kelly, the thinnest member of Rough.

  ‘Excuse me, girls. I’ve just seen someone I know.’

  ‘Hurry back, Johnny,’ shrieked Sabine, the classy one. ‘I can’t drink all this champers on me own. I’ll fart like a rhino!’

  I ignored them and hurried over.

  ‘Do you know this gentleman?’ asked the bouncer.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ Tim said, with a sweet smile, as though we’d last seen each other the other day, not five years before. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ I turned to the bouncer. ‘Yes, he’s a
friend of mine. Please let him in.’

  Once he was on the right side of the rope, we stood awkwardly in front of each other.

  ‘Nice to see you, mate,’ said Tim, giving me a manly pat on the shoulder. ‘Life’s been good to you, I gather.’

  His straight-boy mannerisms annoyed me at some level, but seeing him rendered me speechless. Tim was really here, within reach.

  He must have realized I couldn’t answer him and had the social grace to witter on while I gathered my thoughts.

  ‘I saw you on television the other day and the paper was full of pictures of you at the Brits. You’ve come a long way from gardening at Thornchurch! Who’d have thought it, eh?’

  ‘Yes, well. I go with the flow, you know me.’

  Just then a drunken member of Rough barged between us. ‘Johnny, love, is this bloke getting on your tits?’ She looked Tim up and down. ‘Leave him alone, will ya, love? He’s just having a quiet bevy. He’s sick of being pestered by the likes of you.’

  ‘It’s all right, Lucy, we’re old friends,’ I said. ‘Go and join the others and I’ll see you in a bit.’

  ‘I’m not Lucy. I’m Tammy, actually,’ she said, offended, and staggered off.

  ‘You’re public property now, I suppose,’ said Tim, a trifle sadly. ‘I’d better leave you to your celebrity friends. Nice to see you again. ‘He signalled to the bouncer to let him back into the riff-raff area.

  Suddenly aware that the man I had thought about every night for the last five years was turning his back on me again, I boldly took hold of his arm. ‘No, you don’t,’ I said. ‘We need to catch up.’

  Emotion was fizzing inside me and I couldn’t let him go. He looked down at my hand on his arm and gave me a slow, contented smile .

  We left Rough gawping with displeasure and slipped away. Roy drove us to a quiet members-only club, hidden behind a nondescript green door in a Soho back-street. It was one thirty in the morning. Despite its modest entrance, the club was extremely exclusive. I’d been a member for only a few months, having been fast-tracked up the waiting list. The other members were either famous or accustomed to working with the famous — agents, managers, TV types, media executives and journalists — so it was one of the few places I could go without being stared at or hassled. Inside, the lucky members could enjoy a gourmet restaurant or choose between several quiet, dimly lit bars with discreet but attentive staff. Upstairs there were a number of luxury ‘recovery rooms’ where customers who had over-indulged could lie down until they felt more themselves. Or whatever. We chose the colonial-style Victoria Bar and I nodded politely to a shockingly inebriated Paul O’Grady and Sigourney Weaver as we made our way through it. Maybe this place wasn’t so exclusive, after all.