Date: 17 February 2002
Originally published in: Sunday Express (UK)
Written by: Boy George
On Tuesday, I went to Heart FM to do more promotion for Taboo, and who should I bump into but Victoria (Posh) Beckham? Sadly, she was sans hubby, but I couldn’t resist asking her for a signed snap for my niece Kelly – and, rather cheekily, one for myself.
Well, over the past few years I have been quite cutting about her in this paper. My request for something really rude was denied, but she did write a very spunky message, which I cannot print in this classy paper. I promised to hang the signed picture in my toilet with Ivana Trump and the others.
Reports in a fellow rag about my being embarrassed on meeting Britain’s unofficial new royal diva were more than slightly exaggerated. Far from being embarrassed, I was impressed to learn that my autobiography Take It Like A Man was the only book that Posh had read from cover to cover. I turned up in a builder’s van, while Posh arrived in a flash Merc with a stylist, PR and personal assistant.
But she seemed like quite a nice girl. I asked: “Where’s ya man?” and she arched a brow and sauntered out with her entourage. I guess it will be a while before I’m invited over for one of David’s infamous pasta dishes. Watch this space.
I was very sad to hear about the passing of Princess Margaret, with whom I had a strange encounter in the Eighties. I was at some charity function at the Dorchester Hotel, and was part of a line-up to meet the Princess. I was next in line to Kim Wilde, and we were both wearing those big Eighties hairdos and trowels of make-up. As Princess Margaret shook our hands, she was heard to utter: “Who’s that over-made-up tart?” It was never clarified whether she was referring to Kim or moi, but the press jumped on my case and assumed she was commenting on me.
Some months later, I was having lunch with my chum Marilyn at the Brasserie Brompton Cross, and Viscount Linley, who was also munching, approached our table and said: “My mother never said you were a tart.” He pointed out that his mother had many gay friends and would never say such a thing. There was a real sincerity in his voice – and frankly, why would he bother coming over and risking an earful from a drag-queen commoner? I told him that no grudge was borne – as far as I was concerned, it was just another bit of publicity, and to give his mother my regards.
Those were the days when publicity was like oxygen, and being dissed by a royal was beyond camp. I always had an admiration for Princess Margaret because she knew how to enjoy herself and never apologised for it.
The Shadow Lounge, one of London’s latest gay venues, is now known as “The Shallow Lounge” after one of their big bouncers turned me away last week. These clubs beg one to grace their premises, but once they get on their feet, it’s attitude central. I had my eyebrows on, so there was no excuse for the threatening attitude of the big lug who was seconds away from punching me. Just then the manager appeared, but I was in no mood to enter a gay club with security that should be at a pub in south-east London. So it was off to Heaven, a much friendlier haunt where they’d recognise me with a paper bag on my head. We had our Taboo Valentine’s party there, and it really was a case of “the woodwork squeaks and out come the freaks”.
I had this huge Philip Treacy satellite dish on my head, and spent the entire evening bumping into doors and banging into ceilings. There was an 8ft drag queen version of Maggie Thatcher, and spooky doesn’t even begin to paint the picture. Talk about reliving the nightmare!