Andy Richardson: The biggest stars rise to the challenge
It’s fascinating behind the curtain. The carefully-scripted narrative that entertainers create can bear little resemblance to what goes on back stage. Who we see and who they really are can be as different as a roller coaster ride and a first class British Airways flight.
Perception and reality are frequently mixed.
And the curious thing is this: it’s often the ones who are lowest down the celebrity food chain who have what is euphemistically described as ‘challenging behaviour’.
Those whose walls are lined with platinum discs, Baftas and winner’s medals are normally the most chilled of all. Maybe it’s because they’ve climbed their Everest and are at peace, while those slightly below are still grinding teeth on their never-gonna-make-it quest to the top.
Take a few of the interviewees who’ve passed through Weekend Towers in the not-so-distant past. The Paul Wellers and the David Walliamses, the Sir Rod Stewarts and the not-yet-been-knighted-but-it-will-happen-one-day Noel Gallaghers (phew, what a funny sentence), the Sir Cameron Mackintoshes and the John Legends.
Between them, they’ve entertained billions of people, soundtracked their generation and brought untold joy to audiences while redefining our notions of cool. They have earned, quite literally, billions of pounds and have about as much reason to talk to regional newspaper writers as Monty Don has of weeding your flower bed. They have been as successful in their field as Donald Trump is at growing hair, as remarkable and game-changing as Pelé, Ronaldo or George Best in a five-a-side at the local leisure centre, while their work has had the same impact as an Anthony Joshua fist in the face of a 6ft 6ins Ukrainian. Boom.
And in conversation, each of them, to a man – why are there no women? – are as charming and pleasant as your Uncle Reg on Christmas morning when he’s about to hand out the gifts. Nice one, Reg. You didn’t have to go to the trouble. But next time don’t leave the receipt in the bag.
When Weekend met Paul Weller, he ended up making the tea – rather than the other way round – before answering every question we could throw at him. Erudite and charming, intelligent and thoughtful, he dropped us a line after the interview had run to say how happy he’d been with it. Nice one, Modfather.
David Walliams brushed aside his PR’s requests that we didn’t ask questions about anything other than whatever-it-was-we-were-supposed-to-ask-him-questions-about as he proved himself as personable and funny, as warm and sincere as the man we love on the box.
Sir Rod was a riot on a phone line, joshing about women and booze before we’d had time to say: ‘How many wives’? Self-deprecating and ego-less, he insisted we carry on when we’d used all of our allotted time, providing rare insight into one of the greatest rock‘n’roll careers of all.
Noel Gallagher was a burning, pyrotechnic quote-machine who cast his mind back to obscure gigs in Wolverhampton rather than telling us about, erm, I dunno: Wembley Stadium, Knebworth and all of that schizz. Funny and brilliant with a mind like a razor blade, he chatted until we were done.
Sir Cameron Mackintosh – or should we say ‘the billionaire Sir Cameron Mackintosh’ – was as pleasant as giving flowers on Mother’s Day as he spoke about the little matter of his CV: Les Miserables, The Phantom of the Opera, Mary Poppins, Oliver!, Miss Saigon and Cats. And John Legend was, well, a Legend. Nuff said.
At the other end of the scale, there are frequently episodes of Celebrities Behaving Badly. And while we’re too polite to name names – tempting though it is – their demands make the Brexit negotiations between Theresa May and Jean-Claude Junker look like an amicable request for a little more crackling to go with the Sunday roast.
“The interview must run on X date. You must not ask about Y. You must email us a list of your questions first. You must not have an original thought or do anything that your readers might be grateful for or we’ll come round your house and leave the hair dryer on when you go to work – and we’ll place it next to the fish tank. Ha.”
And then, once we’ve signed their agreements in blood and been persuaded to conduct the interview at 10.23pm on a Friday night, they decide their D-List client has to open a non-descript frozen food outlet in Stockport, instead, while their local show stalls at 233 tickets and no more takers. Funny, really.
It’s not always the performer’s fault. Frequently, the Prima Donna ninjas who do their master’s bidding are the ones with the biggest and most diva-ish flounce.
Not that they trouble us. We make no apologies for having high standards at Weekend. The people we really want in our life invariably rise up to meet them.
