Mark Brennan agreed to the
following if I was to help promote his nightclub. Firstly, all expenses paid. Secondly, I’d need a Two Hundred (£200) fee. Thirdly, Hotel Accommodation overnight on the night
of the opening. In return he wanted me
to “be George Michael” as soon as I got to Reading, which was fine by me and
obviously meant a decent hotel. My outfit
for this little caper was black trousers, my trusty Cowboy Boots, white Tuxedo
shirt and full length Black Silk Coat, the one that Paul had given me for
Christmas 1987 in California. I wanted
to take someone with me for company and asked Dave Bennett, but he was busy so
I asked him whom he recommended? Glenn
was his choice and to be fair he was great fun when almost drunk but a pain
once he’d gone over his limit. Dave also said Glenn would make a great manager
as he was a salesman and a great talker.
Excellent credentials apparently!
A continual problem of mine has been to seek affirmation and approval of
my ideas from others, especially those I respected. The other problem at that time anyway was that
I respected, and sought approval from, the wrong people!
Another objective from this trip was
to get myself some National promotion and Dave said he could help as he had a
good friend who was a reporter for a Sunday Tabloid Newspaper. The premise was that the reporter and his son
(who took the pictures) would follow us to the club. I would chat up a girl who believing I was George
might be convinced to come back to the hotel for a little after show party, so
to speak. I would then, (subject to her
agreement), convince her that we should “sell” our stories to the press along
the lines of “George Michael Lookalike makes out!” or “Oo-er!…I thought he was
George!” An obvious caveat was the need
for the girl to be prepared to “sell” her story and I was unsure how I was
going to be able to spot a girl amongst a whole nightclub full of women, who’d
be prepared to do such a thing, the whole premise appeared poorly thought out
to me.
With Glenn map reading we set off
to Reading and looked forward to turning up at the plush hotel Mark would have
booked for “George”. The directions led
us to a Bed and Breakfast! Glenn went
into reception and enquired as to whether there was a room booked under his
name? George of course travelled
incognito! There was so Glenn said he’d
be back in a moment and coming outside to the car said to me, “Its nice mate
but it’s not George Michael nice.” I
agreed. Glenn went to a payphone and
called Mark at the club and said why had he booked us into a B&B for god’s
sake? Why didn’t he book us into the Hilton
Hotel around the corner from the club?”
As my manager he “would have thought that George would be staying in a 5
Star Hotel,” especially if we were to carry off the idea that George was in
town. Mark agreed and said we could have
dinner and drinks but asked us to watch our expenses. Glenn called Dave Bennett’s press guy and
told him about the change of hotel and we drove off after cancelling the room
at the B&B. I parked the Scirocco
(seriously, George driving a second hand Volkswagen?) around the back of the
hotel and we walked inside. I sat in the
bar whilst Glenn checked us in and we took our bags upstairs. I checked myself over in the mirror and after
making a few “cosmetic” adjustments we went downstairs to the bar and ordered
drinks.
The Hotel Manager came over to
greet us (good, good); he welcomed us to the Hotel (even better) and asked if
we’d be dining there tonight (splendid!!).
Glenn said we were and the Manager said he would inform the chef (very
good indeed, blag underway!) So we sat
in the bar for a couple of hours chatting and laughing away with Glenn enjoying
the blag as much as I, with guests coming in and staring at us and girls
giggling and waving. The time came to
take our table and the Head Waiter led us to our seats, I scanned the room looking
at the other guests and smiling as we made eye contact, many people were
watching us. The hotel interior was an
Atrium design; a high open plan room with steps leading from the Reception to
the Bar and onwards to the Restaurant which was reached using two or three more
steps down to the lowest level. So
anyone sitting in an appropriate place in the Restaurant could see who was in
the Bar. We sat side onto the room with
the Bar to my right and a large glass window-wall to my left. The Sommelier came over and offered us the
wine list at which Glenn said, “Which Champagnes do you have?” The Sommelier opened the list to the page detailing
which Champagnes they carried, “The Dom Pom!” said Glenn. The Sommelier went off to fetch the Champagne
and I looked at Glenn and said “Why not?”
We were into our second bottle within half an hour and eating an Amuse
Bouche the Chef had prepared especially, after the Manager told him that “George
Michael is dining here tonight!”
The
fact that the Chef had brought the dish out to me personally only served to
emphasise to our fellow guests that it was George dining with them. I looked across to the Bar area and noticed a
stocky man with grey hair dressed in a single breasted suit looking in my
direction at first smiling at me, then waving his hand. Realising this was Dave’s journalist mate (confirmed
when a younger guy stood up next to him with a Camera in his hand!), I walked
over to them and we shook hands as he said in my ear, “Bloody hell mate, you
had me fooled!” I offered them drinks and a bite to eat, Roast Beef sandwiches,
I recall. Once our meal was finished we
sat in the Bar and waited for Mark Brennan who arrived around 9pm to discuss
the plan for the evening. He spotted what
was our third bottle of ‘Dom’ and said, “You are watching the expenses aren’t
you.” Glenn said we were and that he was
not to worry, to which Mark said, “Ok, but only that one bottle.” Oooops!
A limousine would arrive at 11pm
and take us from the Hotel to the Club where Mark and a large number of
bodyguards would meet us. Was he
serious? He most certainly was! I would be escorted into the Club and to the VIP
area where a corner booth was laid out with champagne and glasses. Clubbers (women) would then queue to be let
through to meet “George”; they’d share a glass of bubbles and then leave to
allow the next guest through. All I (and
Glenn) had to do was smile, chat and drink Champagne. Mark departed but not before glancing at our
champagne on ice and said, “Just keep an eye on those expenses, ok?” “Of course we will” came the chorus of voices
in reply. Just before 11pm the Hotel
Concierge approached our table and said our car had arrived. The journalist and his son left for the club
after taking a few pictures of us leaving the Hotel and we climbed into a very
nice Mercedes Benz. The Chauffeur got in
and looking in the mirror said, “Good evening Sir, I hope you are well this
evening?” I was. Very well. “I’ll drive you to the Nightclub, then wait and
bring you back to the Hotel unless you wish to something else afterwards. We do have a Casino in Reading,” he
said. “Thank you, can I ask your name?”
I asked, “Terry Sir” said Terry. Terry
then asked, “Would you mind if I asked you a favour Sir? May I have your autograph for my
daughter? When I told her I was driving
for you this evening she was very excited and I must say that the wife and I do
like your music as well,” said Terry. I
said I would be delighted and asked his daughters name as he passed me an autograph
book to sign, reversing the ‘a’ and ‘e’ in Michael, (turning it into ‘Micheal’). I was figuring I couldn’t be prosecuted for
fraud if I spelt the name incorrectly! I
signed the name like that every time.
Autograph completed I sat back
and the car swept out of the Hotel forecourt and after two hundred metres………………swept
into the slip road in front of the Club!
I could have walked it! “Was it
worth it for that?” I thought. Mark Brennan
really wanted to put on a show here and after the change of hotel it looked as
though he was leaving nothing to chance but he was being a tight arse about the
drinks. Mark appeared at the entrance
and Terry opened the door for me to get out.
As I stepped out of the car three huge bouncers each of them way over
six feet tall and built like bulldozers surrounded me. I was lost behind a wall of neck muscle and
steroids. Glenn squeezed his way through
to stand next to me and Mark walked forward and shook my hand all against a
background noise of shrieks and wails of excitement from the queue of women to
my right, with their camera flash bulbs popping. “Welcome George,” said Mark, “it’s a pleasure
to have you open our new club here in Reading” Or some such bollocks. “Hurray” went the cheers to our right, as I
smiled my corniest George smile and walked forward through the doors and into
the club. The foyer was lined with
people all eager to see and shout out, “Hi George!” as I walked past. Glenn looked like a startled rabbit and we
all shuffled forward as the bouncers called out, “Make room, get out of the way
and let us through.”
In fact but for the
bouncers and their slow march I’d have been in my seat way before then as the
scrum wasn’t that heavy. Once we were
into the nightclub the lights flashed (along with the bulbs from our reporter’s
camera) and music blasted our ears, I could barely hear anyone speak. I could see ahead between the bouncers and the
carpet leading around the side of the dance floor and on towards the rear of
the club. As we turned I could make out
a corner booth with a rope linked to two poles in front of it, (VIP area my
arse) and we headed straight for it.
Once behind my safety rope (!), I turned around to face the club and
hundreds of faces all straining their eyes towards me, so I smiled and waved my
hand and shouted out “Hello”, against the background of the DJ’s voice
welcoming me with a “George Michael’s in the room – HO!” to which the crowd
replied with a “HO!” right back at him.
The largest of the bouncers, (their
number had now increased to five, two to my left and two on my right), leant
towards me and said “My name is Ali, I am your personal minder for the whole
evening, these other guys will rotate around the club, but I will always be
here, if you want anything George, I’m your man.” with a wink and a smile that
revealed a number of gold teeth. He was
huge, massively built; his suit appeared sprayed on it was so tight. I winked back to show I got the “I’m your
man!” joke, thanked him and looked at Glenn.
He looked like he was in heaven; surrounded by women, with a bottle of
Moet in a bucket and he was free to sample everything. If I weren’t me; then I would have wanted to
be him! Mark Brennan appeared and
re-iterated the plan that was now becoming as brilliant a plan as I’d ever
heard. Meet loads of women, give them
Champagne, talk to them, give them a kiss if requested and then meet more women
and do exactly the same. I sat down and
Mark poured three glasses of Champagne and picked up his and offered a
toast. An orderly queue of women had
lined up along the back wall of the club to my right in the middle of the
walkway between chairs and tables and the dance floor. “Bring them on,” said Glenn, which got a
sideways look from Mark but who then invited the first girls through the gap
made by the bouncers, and for them to sit down between Glenn and I.
“I love you George!” was to be
the phrase of the night flowed closely by “Can I get a kiss?” and “Can I get
your autograph?” I had tissues provided
to wipe of the layers of lipstick and make-up from my face from all the hugs
and kisses and the evening was passing off quite nicely. Once bored of a particular line of questioning,
or if the lady in question was not exactly a beauty, (face like; A Bull Dog
chewing a wasp; a bag of lamb chops; it had been sat on; it was on inside out;
a mother couldn’t love it; etc.), Ali would note a wink or a tap to his heel
and he’d escort the lady away, “got to make room for the next girl my lovely,
sorry.” Having said that there weren’t
very many of those and there were some exceptionally beautiful women sitting
beside me that night. One in particular
queued up three times. She was tall,
blonde, very pretty and very slim, her name was Vicky and she made no bones
about the fact that she was “free” if that was what I wanted her to be. “Where are you staying tonight then
George? Are you going home or staying in
town?” she asked. “Over the road at the Hilton,” I replied, “You’re welcome to
join us afterwards for a drink in the bar, if you’d like. Glenn, this is Glenn, will be there as will
Mark, Ali and a few other girls and boys?”
“Oooo, Oh, Awwwwwwlright” She said it so slowly I thought she’d been
having a stroke, of sorts. I also wondered
whether she would be up for the story and pictures in the press, but put that
to one side as she got up and the next girl sat down.
Sometime towards the later half
of the evening a girl who had been through to meet me a number of times tried
it again at which her boyfriend took exception and started pacing up and
down. I was unaware of this until Glenn
told me to look in his direction saying, “That twat is going to get himself
hurt if he carries on.” I looked past
Ali and could see this wiry little shit all haircut and nonsense, bouncing
around what was obviously his girlfriend and gesticulating in my direction,
raising his voice calling me a “wanker”, a “twat” and various other choice
names. Ali stood in front of me and
opening his hand wide apart raised it in front of his chest, arm
outstretched. Ali saying, “Calm down
mate,” resulted in the idiot charging at me………………I’d never seen a man folded in
half before. He was then folded in half
again and then again. Any spare arms or
legs popping out of the bundle were poked back in and the bundle was then
lifted up and carried outside, followed closely by the girlfriend screaming,
“Put him down, you’ll hurt him!” Ali had
allowed his associates to complete the removal of the disgruntled clubber but
turned and said, “Are you happy to stay George?” It was after one in the morning but I wasn’t
ready to knock the night on the head just yet.
“That’s not George, look at him, he’s not George Michael,” said a voice
to my left. I turned and looked up at a
sneering face plastered across a wide head, much like a drunken Prop Forward, her
face was mashed up. I ignored the “Orc”
to my left and her friend and turned to the latest girl to sit down, Glenn
poured the drinks and we chatted away.
“Wanker,” said the voice to my left.
I looked at Glenn who stood up and spoke into Ali’s ear. Ali turned around and looked at the girls to
my left, leant into his colleague on his left and with no noise or fuss the two
“ladies” were lifted away and out of the club.
The latest two girls had stood up and left during this and I stood up as
well and stretched my legs. “I’m going
to dance,” I said to Ali. “Ok,” he said,
no questions, he just stepped to one side and I was out from behind the wall of
muscle. Ali stood to the side of the
dance floor as Glenn joined me; glass in hand and Vicky shot across the room
and to my side as soon as I made it onto the hardwood. The photographer took a few shots of Vicky
and I dancing; deciding that three chats, three glasses of champers and a dance
were the pre-requisites for a good shag story!
After we’d danced to a number of songs and wandered back to the seats Mark
Brennan walked towards us. I told him
that I felt the blag had run its course and we should call it a night here, but
that I was interested in having him come back to the hotel for a nightcap along
with a few others; he said he’d organise that.
With our conversation going on I did not spot the second lunatic who
decided to have a go at George Michael.
The second tit was quickly squeezed into dust by Ali who then shouted to
Mark that he was going to, “Get George the fuck out of here,” to which Mark
said, “Out the back way,” pointing towards the corner of the club. It was all very SAS hostage rescue material
as I was escorted through a side door and down the side of the building towards
the Mercedes. I noticed that Vicky was
holding my hand, excellent…………..
In the car Terry looked in the
mirror and said, “Where too sir?” I said,
“The casino I think.” The engine started, we fastened our seatbelts, and Terry
put the car into gear and rolled it forward around ten metres and stopped
outside the Casino. Brilliant! An even shorter drive than the one from the
hotel and that was pathetic; but this?
This was hilarious! “Are you
serious?” I said, “Yes this is the Casino,” said Terry. Glenn was crying with laughter and I was
losing the plot, “Right, lets get out!”
Ali appeared at the door and opened it for me, having walked from the Club
to the Casino before Terry could get around to that side of the car, “Thank
you!” said Terry stepping in front of Ali and taking the door from him. “I give up,” came a cry from Glenn beside me,
“I’ve spilt my fucking champers!” I walked into the Casino only to be told it
was members only. “We only want a late
drink?” said Glenn who had just stumbled in grasping a now empty, Champagne
glass in his hand. “Fuck it! I’m going
to the hotel.” I said and I turned and
went back to the car just as Terry was getting into his seat. Ali opened the door, this time just as Terry
was getting out of the car and was caught in two minds whether to complete the
whole, ‘getting out of the car move’ or to stay put, which turned out to be his
eventual decision. “Up and down eh
Terry?” said Glenn cracking up again and sliding into the foot well.
By the time that Glenn, Vicky and
I drove to the Hotel it was near two in the morning as we ambled into the
lounge bar after bidding farewell to Terry.
Glenn told me he had invited loads of women back to the hotel which
received a ‘tut’ from me worried that we’d be mobbed. The Duty Manager wandered over to ask us if
we wanted anything? I asked if there was
some food available just as the reporter and his son came in and taking seats, ordered
food as well. “Champers for me,” said
Glenn. “What vintage would you like?”
asked the Manager. “The Dom Pom I think,
three bottles.” I looked at Glenn and
smiled, ‘sod it’ I thought, we may as well get hammered, and it’s not my dollar. The Manager strode off and another five or
six girls along with Ali and another bouncer then joined us. “Mark sent me over to keep an eye out for you
George,” said Ali. “Good man,” said Glenn
who was by now getting very boisterous with a couple of ladies who were
giggling and squirming out of his reach.
The Duty Manager turned up and said, “We only have two bottles of the
Dom Perignon left sir. You drank the
rest earlier today.” I looked around at
what had become at least twelve people and said, “We’ll have those two and
three Moet then please.” I was George
Michael to these people (well most of them) and I was pretty sure George
wouldn’t flinch in the face of adversity and go for the wine spritzers!
The wine and Club sandwiches
arrived and we all dived in with Vicky sitting on my lap apparently determined to
get her man. A few more stragglers
wandered in followed by Mark Brennan who looked at the table strewn with plates
and glasses and rolled his eyes skyward.
He poured a glass for himself and sat down next to me. “That was fun and eventful and a little
expensive,” he whispered in my ear. “You
wanted George you got him you can’t do it half hearted Mark,” I replied. Vicky
was nuzzling my neck and making purring sounds in my ear, which were
distracting me from my conversation and having the desired affect. The reporter said he was off home and
everyone started to drift away. I said
to Vicky, “Are you staying?” more out of politeness than anything else and we
stood up and wandered towards the lift.
I bid goodnight to Ali and his pal and the girls who left with
them. Mark signed the bill and left
without saying a word and Glenn wandered up and very drunkenly tried pressing
the call button. After three failed
attempts to even hit the wall, I pressed it and we rode up to our floor.
Our rooms we adjoining so we went into
Glenn’s room left him slumped on the bed and walked through the interior door
into my room locking it behind us. I
went into the bathroom and washed off the make-up and lipstick and cleaned myself
up before walking back into the room.
Vicky was already in bed as I slid in beside her and she said, “I know
you’re not him, you know.” I smiled and
said how did you work that out, I was not denying it; it would be futile and
rude. “I heard you and Mark talking
downstairs and I think George would have a better room than this,” she said
smiling. I looked at her and asked her
if she was bothered by the lies and subterfuge.
“They’re not lies and anyway, it’s been fun. There’s no way I could afford that much
Champagne and I like the way you look, you’re cute.” We disappeared into the quilt.
I broached the idea of the story
to her and she was happy to go along with the ruse, so I called the reporter in
the morning to ask him if we were going for it.
“You don’t want to do that do you?” he said. “Why not?” “Because its too late really we
needed to run the story today and you’re going home.” All this was bollocks to me and I asked him
why he was backing out? He said that
there really wasn’t a story there, which was more bollocks. “You got a free night out anyway,” I said as
I put the phone down. My initial
thoughts of a poorly thought out plan had been proved right.
I saw Mark the following day and
asked about the two hundred pounds appearance fee. He looked at me as if I was talking
Dutch. “Do you know how much last night
cost?” he asked. I said that “no, I did
not, but I bet it was a lot.” “Too
bloody right it was a lot. I have to
account for that to the owners and I can’t afford another two hundred on
top.” Glenn piped up and said, “The
agreement did not say there was a limit on the expenses that you were paying
for?” “And you can just about fuck off
Glenn.” said Mark. We eventually agreed
to split the fee down the middle and I walked away with £100. Vicky had my number and she came up to
Norwich a couple of times but it fizzled out because of the distances involved
and because I had an offer from Dave Bennett for the summer of 1989 that I
could not refuse, an offer that could never have involved having a steady
girlfriend.
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