On the not so sweet 16th anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death, I’m reminded of a candid conversation I had ten whole years before that, with another famous Michael. George Michael.
Jacko died on George’s birthday, and the day before mine. George and I had known each other since he started messaging me online out of the blue back in 2004. After what seemed like an eternity of subtly badgering him, he agreed that I should interview him for a Gay Times cover story in 2007. Two years earlier, our first face to face meeting proved rather different.
Thank heavens I kept a diary.
It’s Monday 13th June, 2005, and, to cut a very long story short, the man known as Yog calls my mobile: “You’ve always sounded like fun. Bring your videos with you if you like.” (I’d recently starred in a couple of saucy suit films for Menatplay.) I arrive outside his Highgate mansion dead on 8pm as agreed and he comes to the gate dressed in khaki shorts and a baggy black T-shirt, one of his beloved Golden Labradors tracking his every move. He’s warm and chirpy, and in pretty good nick. Good start.
He leads me (not by the hand) to a kitchen diner that looks out onto one of the biggest gardens I’ve ever seen but, before I’ve even had a chance to sit down, George gets a phone call. It’s his sister, Melanie: “Put Sky News on. They’re about to announce the Michael Jackson verdict!” So we sit, glued to the flat screen TV on the wall, waiting for the court’s judgment on the latest round of child abuse allegations. We’re so engrossed in the drama that Yog realises he’s completely forgotten to offer me anything. “Do you drink? I think I’ve got a bottle of wine somewhere.” It’s obvious alcohol is no longer his regular drug of choice. This becomes ever more apparent as he spends a good ten minutes looking for a bottle opener. At one point I turn round and catch George Michael with his head inside the washing machine. “Oh, I thought the cleaner may have put the corkscrew in there. I think she’s hiding it from me.”
He then sits at the dining table with two packets of Silk Cut and a stash of hash and rolls a couple of joints. We watch the Not Guilty verdicts come in. After the first one George is incredulous. “No, fucking way!” he cries. Then the next: “I don’t fucking believe it. This is a travesty. Just how many people have been paid off?” It goes on and on, and I can see George’s rage building up. He’s as red-faced as Jacko was white. He clearly believes the court have reached the wrong verdict, so I ask him if he’s ever met MJ.
“Oh yeah, we were even going to work together. But his bizarre behaviour put the kibosh on that. We drove all the way to his house in the steaming heat of California, met for over an hour and not once were were offered a drink or even a chair. He kept his sunglasses on the whole time and let his manager do all the talking. I came away thinking this guy is a complete and utter nutter. This was in the mid 1980s, around the Bad and Faith periods, and it’s funny, looking back, but at the time we were the biggest male pop stars in the world, rivals I suppose. And our label Sony had this grand idea of a duet – the two Michaels – it could’ve been the biggest thing ever. But no amount of record sales was worth that kind of behaviour.”
George switches off the telly and starts to calm down. I’m struck by how extremely grounded and well-mannered he is: “My mother always taught me to treat people with respect and common decency.” We bond over music and he regales me with stories of some of his contemporaries: “Stevie Wonder I adore, but because he’s blind he has no concept of time. I once waited for him an entire day at the studio.” The Dame: “I knew I was never gonna be Bowie, with a level of coolness that was way above everyone. I always thought I was gonna be Elton without the piano.”
Steve Pafford
Excerpted from I want you sex: remembering George Michael
