Cocker-Hoop With Glee!
The reaction to this event, somewhat mundane by rock'n'roll standards, has been sharply divided. Some have voiced their disgust of the 'yobbish' image of the British music scene that such antics create; while others have expressed delight that the excruciating frolics of the mutant Michael were, albeit briefly, interrupted. A statement from Jackson's camp indicated that the singer was in a state of manic depression and that his thoughts were "with the children". I bet they were!
Although the poor kiddies' ordeal (one had a toe trodden on and another was pushed 'roughly' to the floor) seems to have involved marginally less violence than is usual in a school lunch queue, there will probably be legal proceedings, stress counselling and a spread in 'Hello' magazine for the injured parties. But while it is unfortunate that children should be upset by the antics of inebriated singers from Sheffield, it is even more unfortunate that Jackson should have devised such a nauseating spectacle in the first place. His mincing, sickly performance, as he pirhouetted in white robes amongst aforementioned kiddies in a hideous religious pastiche, was quite simply in the most appalling taste.
The notoriety that the incident may earn for Jarvis and Pulp may well pay off for them. There is an illustrious company of badly behaved rockers who will testify to the benefits of being naughty in public. Sales go up, journalists follow you in the hope of further outrages and the record company is secretly pleased. If extra lucky, Radio One might ban your single, which will result in it going 'platinum'.
Ever since P.J. Proby began splitting his trousers in the sixties, British bands and singers have done their best to be at the forefront of behavioural excess. For many years, Led Zeppelin blazed a trail of destruction across the globe, incorporating bar-room brawls, stuffed sharks and an encounter with 'The Plaster Casters', deranged groupies from California who would, in plaster of Paris, preserve for posterity the erect manhoods of any rock star willing to go to bed with them and endure a 'fitting'. Egged on by their psychotic 20-stone manager, the late Peter Grant, the band's high jinks included dangling their American PR man from the fifth floor balcony of a New York hotel bound naked in sellotape; and, dressed and made up as Arab dignitaries, hiring a suite at The Dorchester where they fought a pitched battle with 100 pork chops.
The Rolling Stones, once they had escaped the confines of a bedsit in Edith Grove, embarked on a series of escapades that escalated from relieving themselves on a garage forecourt to the incarceration of Mick and Keith for possession of drugs, a draconian punishment that prompted the famous headline in 'The Times', "Who Would Crush A Butterfly Upon A Wheel?" But there is a darker side to the wild life. Keith Richards, it is said, cannot remember any of the seventies, so all-consuming was his heroin dependency, while Brian Jones drowned in a swimming pool in mysterious circumstances, a paranoid wreck convinced he was the victim of a police conspiracy. Keith Moon played a similar role for The Who.
The hell-raisin' tradition is, despite appearing to be dominated by white males of no fixed haircut, surprisingly free of discrimination. Female protagonists have ranged from Janis Joplin via Wendy O. Williams to Courtney Love; and many have earned reputations for out-drinking the hardest of 'lads'. Neither is there colour prejudice, although rap bands, at least in the US, are more likely to embark on a drive-by shooting than content themselves with flinging a television set from the upper storey of a building.
However, the list of those who didn't 'make it' is a sobering reminder to contemporary stars, if any were needed, that the path to fame and fortune is beset by peril and temptation. From the untimely death of Jimi Hendrix to the squalid suicide of Sid Vicious to the tragedy of Kurt Cobain comes the lesson that performers are no better able to 'handle' drink, drugs or guns than the fan in Row Z. In the crazy world of 'the tour', involving endless periods of inactivity in buses, hotel rooms and hanging around backstage, the appeal of a free 'toot' or a fast woman is understandable. But when one's grip on reality becomes so weak that murdering your girlfriend or blowing your own head off becomes a serious career choice, something has gone badly wrong along the way.
The world would be a very dull place without the exploits of 'showbiz' personalities. Inappropriate public behaviour would become the preserve of politicians, the judiciary and the Royal Family. So Jarvis's protest at Jackson's tastelessness is welcome and salutory. I would have welcomed his presence at David Bowie's 'Glass Spider' show at Wembley some years ago, which was another load of old b******s!
So, good on you, Cocker! Just look after yourself on the long, strange trip to stardom.
Still on the subject of the music scene, our thoughts must go out to the unfortunate young lady who, reports 'The Sun', had her "pert" posterior tattoed with the hopeful legend 'Take That Forever'!
Another recent misfortune saw a fanatical Geordie emblazon his bicep with the name of Andy Cole, a mere couple of days before the striker signed for arch-rivals Manchester United. The man's grief was pitiful to behold, as he contemplated the economies he would be forced to make in order to afford laser surgery.
The message from the above examples seems to be simple. Adorn your body with eagles, doves, lions or dolphins; anchors, swords, chains or motorbikes...but don't name names! It can be no fun to be seen in public with a man whose back or shoulder is a sad testament to Accrington Stanley FC, nor would one wish to share a bed with someone whose flesh commemorates in detail his or her previous conquests. 'Mum' or 'Dad' might be sufficiently vague to avoid controversy, but there is little ambiguity in the phrase 'Des is Sexy' or 'I Luv Kath'. Given that drink is often a precursor to visiting the tattoo parlour, the possibilities for embarrassment are drastically increased. Imagine waking with a stinking hangover to find 'Monster Stud!' stencilled across your midriff!
So remember the motto: think before you drink before you dye!
...is Michael Atherton, captain of the England cricket team, who has managed what many thought impossible: to worsen relations with Pakistan following the Shakoor Rana-Mike Gatting affair.
It is unfortunate that Atherton, who, despite purportedly following Manchester United, is generally considered an amiable enough chap, manages to convey an image that is so sulky, petulant and graceless that it further hurts a team almost out cold as it is, so staggeringly incompetent has been its performances in recent months (years? decades?). His assumed air of boredom at press conferences, combined with a surly manner and impertinent repartee, has upset the host nation in a way that would have been unthinkable in the days of Brearley or Cowdrey. The only equivalent I can think of was the occasion when Douglas Jardine, the amateur captain of the thirties, upon being questioned by a journalist at the start of the infamous 'Bodyline' series, snapped back, "Let me make something clear. I do not talk to the Press...and I never talk to Australians".
It is a bit much, nevertheless, for the Pakistani media to unite in howls of outrage at the revelation that a groundsman was offered a few Rupees to allow the players to practise on the square. In a country where almost any successful venture requires the greasing of palms at every step, this sort of hypocrisy really will not do. 'Backsheesh' is endemic across the length and breadth of India and Pakistan: if the England players try to fit in with local custom, they should be applauded rather than reviled.
If there is any more of it, we'll send Di over again...for good!
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