As Christmas 1988 approached I met two
women at Ricks Place who were trying to start up a Model Agency. They had assembled a handful of wannabe models
and their agency had been commissioned to produce a Ski Wear show at a club
just outside of Norwich, where my brother Richard had met his wife Tracey many
moons ago. Fifteen or so "models" paraded across the dance floor wearing various padded ski suits and jackets, gloves and hats and the evening went down well, but more importantly two of the models were also dancers! We agreed to meet
up after I had told them about my plan to put on a gig launching myself as a
George Michael look-a-like.
I needed a
couple of dancers to join me on stage and deliver as professional a show as
possible and after an initial meeting we put together a rehearsal plan to
develop and then tighten up a routine to go with the songs. I then approached the manageress of Ricks
Place and her assistant manager Mark Brennan to ask whether I could use the
club one night for the launch party. As
Tuesday evenings were quiet they agreed I could hold the launch on that night
in the run up to Christmas, they’d get the bar takings but there would be no
charge on the door, it was then that I started my
ultra sneaky marketing campaign.
Firstly, I contacted the local press
and asked whether it was true that George Michael was appearing at Ricks Place
in December? "No, we've heard nothing;
probably a hoax" was their response. I
then went on a Fly Poster campaign, putting up A4 posters around Norwich with the
Sony Music record Label on the bottom with “You need Faith? Who is coming to Ricks Place in Norwich?” written above. I then
contacted all the major National Newspapers, focusing on the Music &
Entertainment desks such as the "Bizarre" column at ‘The Sun’ and asked the
journalists whether they had heard that George was to appear in a clandestine
gig in Norwich to promote his new single? "Nope, not heard anything" they said but they would look into it. Then back to the local press to say that I
had called the nightclub and they were being very non-committal about
forthcoming events at the club, especially the Tuesday in question. I told them that I had seen posters around
town referring to an event at Ricks Place, (they admitted to having seen these as well) and that I
had called the National Papers to ask what they knew and that they were being very cagey. This involved not just myself but also the
manageress of the club, Mark Brennan and my dancers so was coming at them
daily and from different people. Sure
enough within days the phones at Ricks Place started to ring with Local and
National papers asking what was happening, to which the stock answer was,
“Sorry, we cannot comment on any events other than those already advertised”.
This continued in the lead up to the gig, rehearsals were completed with a couple of dress rehearsals at the club during the day's before and we were pretty sure we had a great show, albeit for only three songs, "Faith, I'm Your Man and Father Figure" On the Tuesday morning, the day
of the gig, we called both the local and National press and said that a very
large truck was unloading speakers, lights, instruments etc. at Ricks Place,
and did they know who was playing there tonight? Every single one of them said that they had
heard through the grapevine that George Michael might be appearing and that
they had received calls asking whether George was playing in Norwich. I said in reply that “Well if he is, I’m going
and would they be coming as well?” The
answer was a little non-committal; such as saying they’d send a local
journalist if they were free.
I had organised for my friends, all over six foot and well built, to act as my bodyguards and a pal who
had a very nice Mercedes, was to be my chauffeur. My costume for the night was unfortunately
still based around the Faith Album look; Levi 501’s, my cowboy boots, which
helped raise me up from my 5’9” inches closer to 6 feet tall, a white singlet
and a very nice Tassel Sleeved Leather Motorbike Jacket, with Rock and Roll
Classic embossed across the back and of course, the obligatory RayBan Aviator
Sunglasses. The Dancers wore black leggings
and tight t-shirts with red sashes around their waists and I applied the usual
make-up to my face to complete the look.
My beard being more red than black, I’d brush in black mascara to deep
the colour and cover over patches where the beard stubbornly failed to grow. It actually worked well and I don’t think my
Mum ever noticed I was using her make-up!
I got ready at the Hole in The
Wall and at 10pm, there were five of us crammed into the Mercedes and heading
for Ricks Place. I say crammed, as it
was a squeeze with my bodyguard’s slotted either side of me in the back of the
car. The dancers got into a second car
and followed us down. From the car to
the door of the club it was thirty metres, as the club was just inside a
shopping precinct. Mark Brennan walked
over to the car and opened the rear door letting out the first minder and then
he sat in the car and said, “That’s fucking unbelievable, you’re him mate,
that’s fantastic”. I thanked him and he
said, “You need to know that the club is absolutely packed full of press, I
mean all the press, the major tabloids from London and the local guys as
well. The plan definitely worked, they
have been driving us mad trying to get a lead on the story, asking us all
sorts of questions, they really think George Michael is coming here tonight!” I was really happy and all I needed now was
to get inside the club and make it to the dressing room, that was to the right
of the stage, which in fact was a little storage room/office.
We agreed on a plan whereby I
would walk in surrounded by people so as not to give a clear view of me to
anyone. I had to keep the illusion going
until I walked on stage. Mark stood back
from the car and I climbed out. A few people were queuing at the door, they
turned around and couple of girls started shouting my (George’s) name, followed
by the men shouting out my name as well with the odd “wanker” thrown in for
good measure! We walked passed the people
queuing outside and went in through the doors and started up the stairs to the
club that was on the first floor. As
soon as we were inside the club the cameras started going off; their flash’s
illuminating the open plan stairs. There
was a turn a third of the way up, so my back was away from the journalists
overlooking the stairs as I climbed the first flight but as I turned and walked
directly toward the cameras I was greeted by non-stop camera flash’s. My friends surrounding me included Nigel
Bradley, Paul Waterfield (I think) and Ian Pearce were really playing their
part, moving people aside as we finally entered the nightclub itself. Cries of “George, George, over here mate,
George, smile George, Hey George” came from the cameramen and reporters.
Inside all this frantic activity
I was in a bubble; the cacophony of noise, shouts and screams, pushing and
shoving, swearing reporters and clubbers alike was amazing. I looked across towards the bar and saw
groups of people standing with drinks in their hands straining their necks to
get a look at who was inside this throng of bodies, moving like a swarm of
bees, across the dance floor heading for the stage. Looking ahead, past the backs of my friends
and Mark Brennan I could see the door to the dressing room getting closer, my
feet barely touching the ground as we surged over the wooden dance floor,
across the carpet edging and into the room, the door slamming closed behind
us. “Fucking hell” came as a chorus! Voices as one as we took in what we had just been through. A knock at the door and the manageress
appeared with a bottle of champagne in a bucket and we shared a glass as we all
cracked up over the scam we’d just pulled on the National Press. The gig had yet to start but I thought I had
them. Wrong!!!
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