In 1983 I met Paul Daniels in a department store in Blackpool. He signed books for both me and my brother. At first I was annoyed because my brother had picked up Paul’s “Magic Book” whereas I had “More Magic”, quite obviously the less impressive sequel. Still, when we reached the front of the queue, I got a kiss off Paul and my brother didn’t. Plus my book says “love Paul” whereas his just has “Paul”  (I suppose anything more would have considered been a bit gay).

I didn’t get anything more than a kiss from Paul, mind. This is probably because 1) I was with my grandma in a public place, 2) I wasn’t wearing a “super-short mini-skirt[.], teetering high heels and slap”, and 3) I’m quite possibly just not his type (I look nothing like Debbie McGee – more of a Courtney Cox, I am). The fact that I was also eight is probably neither here nor there. After all, I was an early developer and when girls aren’t in school uniform, who can tell? As Paul allegedly wrote in a recent blog post, with “groupies” it’s sometimes “impossible”. Anyhow, it’s just as well nothing more happened between me and Paul. Apart from anything else, he’d have forgotten the entire thing and would probably now say I was making it up, just like those Jimmy Savile accusers. (more…)

I decided not to watch that Jimmy Savile documentary. All the same, I’ve probably seen it all, bit by bit, in stills and reports in the days since it was aired. I’ve probably seen more than was originally in it. There’s a creepy momentum that drags you in, every detail so tremendously believable even though you tell yourself it isn’t.

In a meeting this morning a colleague demonstrated his iPad to me. Flicking through news pages, he paused as a photo of Jimmy, cigar in mouth, leered up at us. It felt, oddly, as though one of us ought to make a joke, although neither of us could. So he passed over swiftly to Justin Lee Collins. (more…)

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