Dear George
Last night I came to see you at Earl’s Court, London. I am a true fan. I haven’t bought the book or video yet but did buy a Symphonica Tour black T shirt and to prove I am a real fan, I slept in it last night. But George, I was a tad disappointed with your performance. Yes, you can sing (I defended you against my husband’s comments that ‘ok, he’s got a good voice but not much of a variety of style.’ To put you in the same category as Hugh Grant and his ability to act is blasphemy in my book.) Yes, you’ve had annus horriblus, what with your traumatic illness and all that but, George, you’ve mellowed. There were too many ballads and not enough pizzazz. Each time you started on an old favourite guaranteed to get us up off our seat (and George, I jumped up when you asked, not like the couple next to us who reluctantly clambered to their feet at the last moment only when you were blocked from their view by the people in front of them) I was hoping that this was the start of a real old knees up, only for you to have us sat back down for the next song as you again shifted the pace to adagio.
When I came to your last concert at the same venue I was that desperate to see you again I made my husband sit in a different block of seats to me as there was only a single seat left near to you and the stage. (It nearly cost me all my housekeeping allowance for the month but you’re worth it). I danced with strangers the whole way through your unbelievable set and was buzzing at the end so much so that I sang your tunes all the way home. Last night it was as much as I could do to stop myself zzz- ing as we left Victoria station. I even left early as you were finishing off your encore and missed your wave goodbye so I wouldn’t miss the last train home. George, that would NEVER have happened if you’d had me sizzling along with your snake hips but the thought of battling with the crowd on the platform at Earls court tube was too much to contemplate.
I was soooo ready to party. I’d had my afternoon nap to top up the energy levels, a prerequisite beer to put me in the holiday mood and my dancing boots shined and tapping. I was there George, I was up for a rollicking good time. I know you probably wanted to impress me with your change of style, range of borrowed tunes and new best friends, the Symphonic Orchestra, and believe me I was impressed, but that set would have been better suited to somewhere more intimate like Ronny Scott’s where I could have admired your smart suit and those sunglasses would have stopped you seeing the tears in my eyes when you dedicated ‘You have been Loved’ to your mother and all of us who have lost someone.
What I think you’ve forgotten, George, is that along with you, your fans have got Older but we no longer want to be reminded of it. For one night we want to feel as though we’re still in Club Tropicana with you and the gang. Amongst my female peers there is no other song guaranteed to get us all up on the dance floor and happy at the mere hint of a cricket buzzing. The youth of today think they know how to party but they forget we’ve been there already. They have no idea that the seventies and eighties invented the word party.
We’ve all grown up George. We’ve all made mistakes. You’ve had your misdemeanours in the men’s toilets and when you crashed your car after that heavy night out and looked a little worse for drug wear in the photo in the paper the next day, I wanted to come and offer you a safe haven to get over your excesses without being hounded by the paparazzi all the time.
I know you tried to show your more mature and generous side to the straight men in the audience dragged there by their wives and girlfriends by having that video running of the half naked lady hiding behind those feathers as your backdrop to one of the songs. My husband was most grateful and even I, although not a lesbian, could see the merits of her very sensual, erotic show. But maturity doesn’t have to mean ballads and black tie mixed with a bit of fluff.
As I write this, I’m still wearing my T shirt, George. It may not come to bed with me again (one night is enough for a long suffering husband) and be relegated to tennis on a Monday night but I wanted you to know that as long as you’re singing, I’ll be humming along, but next time we meet, please crank it up… I may be a little deaf by then, have my zimmer parked outside and heaven knows... will feel the need to party like a demon.
Love
Teresa x
Last night I came to see you at Earl’s Court, London. I am a true fan. I haven’t bought the book or video yet but did buy a Symphonica Tour black T shirt and to prove I am a real fan, I slept in it last night. But George, I was a tad disappointed with your performance. Yes, you can sing (I defended you against my husband’s comments that ‘ok, he’s got a good voice but not much of a variety of style.’ To put you in the same category as Hugh Grant and his ability to act is blasphemy in my book.) Yes, you’ve had annus horriblus, what with your traumatic illness and all that but, George, you’ve mellowed. There were too many ballads and not enough pizzazz. Each time you started on an old favourite guaranteed to get us up off our seat (and George, I jumped up when you asked, not like the couple next to us who reluctantly clambered to their feet at the last moment only when you were blocked from their view by the people in front of them) I was hoping that this was the start of a real old knees up, only for you to have us sat back down for the next song as you again shifted the pace to adagio.
When I came to your last concert at the same venue I was that desperate to see you again I made my husband sit in a different block of seats to me as there was only a single seat left near to you and the stage. (It nearly cost me all my housekeeping allowance for the month but you’re worth it). I danced with strangers the whole way through your unbelievable set and was buzzing at the end so much so that I sang your tunes all the way home. Last night it was as much as I could do to stop myself zzz- ing as we left Victoria station. I even left early as you were finishing off your encore and missed your wave goodbye so I wouldn’t miss the last train home. George, that would NEVER have happened if you’d had me sizzling along with your snake hips but the thought of battling with the crowd on the platform at Earls court tube was too much to contemplate.
I was soooo ready to party. I’d had my afternoon nap to top up the energy levels, a prerequisite beer to put me in the holiday mood and my dancing boots shined and tapping. I was there George, I was up for a rollicking good time. I know you probably wanted to impress me with your change of style, range of borrowed tunes and new best friends, the Symphonic Orchestra, and believe me I was impressed, but that set would have been better suited to somewhere more intimate like Ronny Scott’s where I could have admired your smart suit and those sunglasses would have stopped you seeing the tears in my eyes when you dedicated ‘You have been Loved’ to your mother and all of us who have lost someone.
What I think you’ve forgotten, George, is that along with you, your fans have got Older but we no longer want to be reminded of it. For one night we want to feel as though we’re still in Club Tropicana with you and the gang. Amongst my female peers there is no other song guaranteed to get us all up on the dance floor and happy at the mere hint of a cricket buzzing. The youth of today think they know how to party but they forget we’ve been there already. They have no idea that the seventies and eighties invented the word party.
We’ve all grown up George. We’ve all made mistakes. You’ve had your misdemeanours in the men’s toilets and when you crashed your car after that heavy night out and looked a little worse for drug wear in the photo in the paper the next day, I wanted to come and offer you a safe haven to get over your excesses without being hounded by the paparazzi all the time.
I know you tried to show your more mature and generous side to the straight men in the audience dragged there by their wives and girlfriends by having that video running of the half naked lady hiding behind those feathers as your backdrop to one of the songs. My husband was most grateful and even I, although not a lesbian, could see the merits of her very sensual, erotic show. But maturity doesn’t have to mean ballads and black tie mixed with a bit of fluff.
As I write this, I’m still wearing my T shirt, George. It may not come to bed with me again (one night is enough for a long suffering husband) and be relegated to tennis on a Monday night but I wanted you to know that as long as you’re singing, I’ll be humming along, but next time we meet, please crank it up… I may be a little deaf by then, have my zimmer parked outside and heaven knows... will feel the need to party like a demon.
Love
Teresa x
