Rather than risk getting sidetracked by requests for recipes and handy hints, it’s probably best if I don’t dwell on my previous life as a cook.
Now if this sounds like I’m making excuses because I was a bit of a duffer, let me say that for a good few years I was the big-swinging-dick in the St. James Club kitchens … and don’t feel you need to brush up on your celebrity hot-spots if you’ve never heard of the place; the secret of the club’s success hinged on a level of privacy that was the envy of many of those hoity-toity gentleman’s clubs dotted about the same gilded patch between Piccadilly and The Mall.
Not that it had much else in common with its famous neighbours like Boodles or Whites or The Carlton. To start with, the St. James Club was a small private hotel – forty suites in total – and rather than being a place where purple-nosed gentry and fat-arsed politicians still gorged on the same food that had fattened their forefathers for 300 years or more, it served as a home-from-home to a unique breed of celebrities … and by that I mean those stars of stage and screen who were happy to pay a small fortune to be out of the public gaze; and in the late eighties, a thousand pounds a night bought an awful lot of privacy.
There was an honorary committee chaired by the much-loved Sir John Mills, but with members as diverse as Liza Minnelli, Sir Roger Moore and Pete Townshend Esq., it was structured to be more cosmetic than functional.
There were movie moguls and rock impresarios and needless to say, the haves-and-have-yachts were never far away when the A-list celebs checked in … and as keeper of the pantry keys, I often got to meet the regulars …
‘Something light for lunch? Certainly, Miss Basinger. Let me rustle you up a truffle omelette.’ (That’s head-chef-speak for telling a sous-chef to sort it out.)
‘Yes, of course we can do you a homemade beefburger, Mr Costner. No trouble at all. I’ll get onto it straight away. (See above.)
I drank Guinness with Alan Parker and brandy with Robert Palmer, and now that Mike Tyson is over the hill, I’m not scared to say that his first wife, Robin Givens, once planted two whopping great kisses on my cheek (just in case I’ve got it wrong about him being over the hill and he’s looking to give me a good hiding, it’s only fair to warn him that my biggest best friend who owns the Robin Hood pub in Cardiff is dead good with his fists.)
And then there was the American film producer who also managed Alice Cooper and Luthor Vandross; and although I didn’t get an invite to his wedding, we were chummy enough for him to invite me to LA to cook for his celebrity buddies.
He was 20 pounds overweight, balding and wore bottle-lense glasses, and as if to prove that looks weren’t everything, he was a former escort of Sharon Stone … yeah, that’s right: this article is written by the hand that shook the hand that had no doubt caressed the super-sexy superstar. Talk about more bang for your buck, eh fellas?
And yet, with such thoughts to colour my imagination, it’s easy to forget that life wasn’t always so rosy; not everyone was so nice: straight off the top of my head I can think of one movie star – a renowned limelight-junkie – who didn’t even bother having his 18 pieces of luggage portered up to the penthouse before he checked out. He didn’t like the place. Too private.
Now call me wimpish if you like, but I’m a bit nervous about telling you who he was … I don’t even know if I should be calling him black or Afro-American; so just to be on the safe side, I’ll say that his surname would lend you to think he’s Irish, and his Christian name is the same as Janet Allcock’s ex-husband, Eddie, who lives opposite that rough pub on the council estate.
Anyway, needless to say, we submitted a bill to cover our losses, and actually received payment in full, more or less by return. No questions asked. But having said that, the cheque didn’t come from Eddie Murphy … oh bugger! That’s torn it. Ah well, what the hell? If nothing else, the no-quibble payment feeds nicely into the gist of the story …
Coming at a time when Stormin’ Norman was kicking up his Desert Storm and American film studios and, more importantly their insurers, had red-flagged the UK as a war zone, a block booking for Jon Bon Jovi and his entourage was a godsend … the notification that the band members would be spending most of the five-day stay with friends and family came as a huge disappointment to many of the female staff, as well as to those of us who were hoping to dine out on tales of high-jinx and hanky-panky.
But credit where credit’s due: the eight or ten guys who chose to stay put might have been part of the back-up team, but they were superstars when it came to upholding the best traditions of rock ’n’ roll.
The concierge could barely keep track of the tarty-looking dolly birds, and even before the marathon party was in full swing, all four phones in room service were ringing off the hook.
Bottles and bottles of Jack and Stoli and Crystal fizz, and although the food they liked was nothing special – more the junk stuff, good for soaking up the booze and satisfying the munchies – the orders were frequent enough to keep the eight-strong team of waiters on the go morning, noon and night … not that any of them objected; not when there was a good chance of happening on what could have been an audition for the group scene in a Californian skin-flic. The fact that the performers carried on regardless – as if waiting for an unseen director to yell ‘cut’ – explained why it could take as many as three waiters to serve a bottle of champagne.
Even so, the way they went about their business was straight out of the club’s training manual: an unruffled demeanour throughout – a bit like experienced parents deliberately paying no attention to their three year old son when he starts stretching his willy, chuckling more heartily with each successive tug – followed by a discreet and silent exit, if a tad on the slow side.
And yet, setting aside the live sex shows and frolicking, there was a downside to their by-the-book diligence: short of tapping a guest on the shoulder – a novel take on coitus interruptus – there was no way of getting a signature on the room service check, which in turn meant no tip … a bummer for sure, but peanuts when compared to the eventual cost …
In accordance with instructions, the bill and a breakdown of charges was submitted a week after the group’s departure. I can’t remember the exact figure but I know it wasn’t far short of £105,000.
Payment was prompt and hand delivered by a middle-aged American chap. Despite being casually dressed, it soon became clear he was more than just a messenger boy.
From what I understand, he didn’t come across as arrogant, not even when he presented a cheque for £94,000. He simply smiled, almost apologetically, and as he slid a bundle of unsigned room service checks across the table, he said: ‘And here is what amounts to the £11,000 shortfall.’
He wasn’t angry or bolshie and at no time did he insinuate that the club was pulling a fast one. In fact, without going into erotic detail, he made it clear he knew exactly how such a situation could arise. He even joked about the waiters getting their tips in kind; but then he said something which has stuck with me ever since: ‘Not all establishments are as trustworthy as this, and my role in the Jon Bon Jovi Corporation is to ensure that we don’t get ripped off. It’s estimated that last year alone I saved us just over half-a-million dollars.’
For what its worth, we were left sucking an eleven thousand pound mop, but that’s not the issue …
Up until the money-minder’s revelation, I’d never given a moment’s thought to the concept of corporate rock stars, and although it wasn’t hard to imagine how die-hard Bon Jovi fans might feel about their idol joining the ranks of the boardroom fat cats with their fiscal forecasts and pie charts and antique silver letter openers, it didn’t bother me none; I was big into Springsteen … badlands and mean streets and switchblades an’ all.
But if ever I needed reminding of what goes around, comes around, a recent spate of emails did the trick.
First off, was a message from BruceSpringsteen.com, announcing the release of his latest album, The Promise.
According to the blurb, the 21 songs were written in the seventies and left over from the Darkness On The Edge Of Town sessions … and as if there was an expectation of ‘left over’ being labelled as marketing-speak for rejects, a few hand-on-heart words from Steven Van Zandt served to put minds at rest.
Not that I needed any assurance; songs like Because the Night and Fire have stood the test of time and at £7.99 ($14) a pop, the double CD was one helluva bargain in anybody’s book.
And so, as we warm to yet another season of goodwill, it’s tempting to think that, having put together an album on the cheap and served up a stonkin’ good deal for the fans, the boardroom bigwigs would be congratulating each other on a job well done.
But that would be reckoning without corporate greed. What else can account for the decision to bundle together The Promise, a remixed version of Darkness along with 3 DVDs and dress it all up as a milestone bargain at £73 or $115? … Oh, I almost forgot: there’s an 80 page notebook – a reproduction of Bruce’s thoughts and vision, and alternative lyrics – and there’s a poster, and yes you’ve guessed it, a T-shirt.
Now don’t get me wrong; Darkness On The Edge Of Town is a brilliant album – seminal in the true sense of the word – and no doubt the DVDs and the notebook make for a fascinating back up … and before anybody says anything, yes I know the T-shirt is 100% cotton, but speaking as somebody who has traipsed all over Europe to see the man in concert, this whole kit and caboodle strikes me as a step too far.
But even if price wasn’t an issue, I can’t help wondering just who came up with the idea in the first place, and more to the point, how does Bruce figure in it all? Is he the boardroom boss, beholden only to budgets and forecasts, or are we to believe that his music is a selfish mistress demanding his full attention no matter what?
Please God, let’s hope so; but even if our prayers are answered, I still think he should take a look at his branded goods and let’s see what he makes of a Born To Run mug at $17.95 … stone me, it would need to come with a good slug of vintage Armagnac before I’d shell out that kind of dosh.
But it would be unfair to single out Bruce or his cronies for all the flack. It seems as if all my favourites are looking for a quick buck. Maybe they’re thinking we won’t have a pot to piss in when the tax hikes bite after Christmas, who knows? But even the genius Tom Waits – my all time number one – is dipping his bread. Two weeks ago, another one of those emails advised me that his first four albums have been re-mastered and recorded on 180 gram red vinyl, and can be yours in time for Christmas … providing you’ve got £116.33 to spare!
Now I ask you: who in their right mind is going to fork out that much? It’s almost enough for a deposit on one of those end-of-terrace houses near where Eddie Allcock lives – not the one with planning permission for a new kitchen, I’ll grant you, but enough for the one with the over-run garden and the broken guttering round the back.
But don’t go rushing for your credit card just yet. As if to complete the tri-cast, Robert Smith has re-mixed The Cure’s 1990 album, Entreat, and with the addition of 4 new songs, Entreat Plus is being touted as a collectors item at a mere £19.99. Okay, it’s limited to a thousand and the unique way the white vinyl is marbled means that no two copies are the same, but it’s still twenty quid coming at a time when I’m thinking about bumping up the stuffing so as we can make do with just the one chicken leg for Christmas lunch.
And if all this sounds a tad light on festive cheer, let me round off by saying that, to some extent, I can understand how a wet-behind-the-ears band like JLS can be pushed into lending their names to condoms; and even fading lights like The Monkees endorsing their own-brand cocktail shaker – at least it shows they are keeping pace with their fans. But I ask you, do those mega-rich legends really need to …? Oh, bugger …
Sorry about that. The bloody dog goes loopy when he hears the doorbell. Yapping and jumping all over the place. Nearly knocked my new Born To Run mug off the desk.
Anyway, I’d better go and see who’s at the door. It might be the postman. I don’t want the stupid mutt scaring him away. I’ve waited long enough as it is for my four Tom Waits albums. I’m not so worried about my Entreat Plus, I only placed the order last … what?
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And yet, setting aside the live sex shows and frolicking, there was a downside to their by-the-book diligence: short of tapping a guest on the shoulder – a novel take on coitus interruptus – there was no way of getting a signature on the room service check, which in turn meant no tip … a bummer for sure, but peanuts when compared to the eventual cost …
