A rock star is for life – not just for Christmas

Published by Daily Mail

Cliff ChristmasExactly 30 years ago, in December 1982, Cliff Richard’s ‘Little Town’ was ringing out of all the radio stations like a peal of church bells calling the faithful to worship, and the Peter Pan of pop was strutting his glittery stuff all over Top of the Pops. There were bright stars twinkling above and tinsel strewn over some horrendous jumper knitted by Aunt Doris. ‘Little Town’ was the sixth track on the album ‘Now you see me… now you don’t’ (and yes, I still have it on vinyl).

Astonishingly, ‘Little Town’ never made it to No.1: rather like The Pogues’ ‘Fairytale of New York’, it probably should have, and feels like it might have. But thereafter Cliff became synonymous with log fires, mince pies, mulled wine and the warm glow of Christmassy feelings. The Devil no longer had all the good music: Cliff brought us devotional pop straight from the adoring shepherds and Wise Men, and the race to the Christmas No.1 had truly become the highlight of the pop calendar. Continue reading

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Prime Minister Boris – tactics and strategy

Published by Daily Mail

Boris back in CommonsOnly the chosen ever attain the level of fame or notoriety which propels them to first-name familiarity with the wider public. I’m not taking about the manufactured pap of celebrity pop – those who are thrust onto the world stage all carefully processed and packaged, like Rihanna, Beyonce and Bjork (though with a surname like Buomundsdottir, I can understand why she dropped it). No, I’m talking about those whose mononymous identity emerges organically, as recognised by the people. In antiquity, one thinks of names like Galileo, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Dante and Raphael, not to mention Jesus and Mohammed. In modern times, there’s Cliff, Oprah, Vangelis, Diana…

And Boris.

How many politicians rise to such dizzy heights of popularity that the whole country knows them by their first name? Of course, you get ‘Call me Dave’ (Cameron) contempt, or ‘Gideon’ (Osborne) scorn. But mention the name of Boris and eyes dilate with visions of huggable amiability: people glow inwardly at the mere thought of his aura; they are endeared to his eccentricity. Continue reading

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