Liz Jones: 'In which I go to the Rock Star’s show' - YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Sign in Welcome!Log into your account Forgot your password? Password recovery Recover your password Search Sign in Welcome! Log into your account Forgot your password? Get help Password recovery Recover your password A password will be e-mailed to you. YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Home Life Liz Jones Liz Jones ‘ In which I go to the Rock Star s show’ By Liz Jones - August 21, 2022 Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, as the late, great Bernard Cribbins said in the Fawlty Towers episode entitled ‘The Hotel Inspectors’ which is, puzzlingly, no longer available on BBC iPlayer. Sunday, and my column about me turning into an incontinent collie is published. Oh, for the days before the internet, when Zoë Heller would have to walk to her local Kinko’s in New York to fax me her column, which I would then have to type into the system before telephoning her to say: ‘It’s 200 words short. Could you think about naming the older man? Or not, it’s fine.’ Tom Peake at Meiklejohn Or even 20 years ago, when my husband would whine, ‘Have you written a piece about our marriage?’ and I would say, with the confidence of someone who knows he will never be bothered/is too tight to go to Sainsbury’s to buy a copy of the paper, ‘No. What on earth makes you think that?’ The Rock Star: ‘Did that really happen to you on our lunch date?’ Me: ‘Why are you reading my column? The last one was a stalker, always listening to the podcast, the nosy parker.’ Him: ‘Because I want to find out what you are really thinking. How you feel about White Pepper Guy. And me.’ Me: ‘Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?’ Him: ‘Too late now!’ Anyway, he forgave me. That night, I went to see him at his festival. It didn’t go well. It was raining, during the hottest, driest summer on record. Never mind him possibly being electrocuted, the rain meant my hair frizzed up. I was reminded of Monica in Friends, on her visit to Barbados: ‘It’s the humidity!’ I told him I’d need two seats and doubtless the man behind me would be requesting a refund. I’d bought a pair of Maharishi olive green combat trousers for the occasion. When they turned up, I realised they were quite ‘low slung’, meaning the crotch was near my knees, Kris Kross fashion. ‘Wearing a nappy, are we? Puppy pad?’ he said, planting a hurried kiss on my cheek. I was wearing Hourglass primer, Laura Mercier tinted moisturiser and Chanel foundation, so as he broke away from our embrace his face, too, was a little – how shall I put it – drag queen. As though several moths had flown into his face, leaving smudges. I stayed quiet. Hoped no one would notice. I couldn’t relax during the concert as I kept thinking about the room he had booked, with its double bed and twin beds. Does he want me to sleep in the single bed? What will the cleaner think the next day? It was weird, too, seeing him singing, the adoring fans waving and filming, as I knew his jeans had a burn mark from when he was ironing them moments before backstage. I had said, ‘Don’t do a Paul McCartney and have the first hour be all about songs we’ve never heard of, which meant people sloped off to get organic frozen yogurt.’ He was so upset, suddenly unsure, that he had just stood, iron on bottom, for minutes until they started to smoke. He dismissed my advice as from someone who is ‘living in the past’. The sex, when men come off stage, is always a disappointment. You can never be adoring enough. I should have hired the young man from reception, climbed on to his shoulders and waved a banner. They take a while to come ‘down’. No matter how many times you say they were ‘really great’, they never believe you: ‘What do you know, cloth ears?’ They sit, head bowed over their phone, reading reviews on Twitter when all you want to do is order room service and watch Love Island. I don’t know how Linda could stand it. Jones Moans… What Liz Loathes This Week PRs who email me with the heading, ‘Dear –’ and then ask the question, ‘Are you thinking of any features for Christmas?’ Hairdressers who ask, ‘Do you want conditioner?’ Yes! British workmen. I just asked the men insulating my loft to wipe any fingerprints from the hatch. They forgot. What are they? Goldfish? Men. 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