Keith Harrison: Take your protein pills and put your helmet on
Never meet your heroes. I have a very select list of people I never want to interview.
Top of the list is Paul Weller, great songwriter, spokesman for my generation and composer of the soundtrack to my life.
But a cantankerous old sod; moody and unpredictable, reputed to quiz interviewers on their knowledge of his work before getting involved:
PW: So you're a fan??What's your favourite Style Council B-side?
Me: Party Chambers.
PW:?OK. You've passed. Ask a question.
Me: What's your favourite Keith Harrison column?
PW:?Who's Keith Harrison?
Me: Get out.
Second is Terry Hall, lead singer with The Specials.
TH doesn't do many interviews, what with being bipolar and all. But he doesn't really need to. Just listen to the music.
Third was ol' Ziggy Stardust himself, the lad insane, David Bowie.
I say 'was' deliberately there because things have changed in the past few weeks.
Bowie, zeitgeist creator of some of the greatest music in history, suddenly has a story to tell.
He's on his uppers, you see; brassic, skint, stony broke, potless.
For the Thin White Duke of rock royalty, the royalties must have dried up. (Serves you right Dave, that's what comes of not writing a decent tune since 1982.)
There can be no other explanation for Bowie swapping his credibility, his legacy and his place on my 'untouchable' list . . . to advertise handbags.
Yep, from The Man Who Sold The World to the lesser man now selling suitcases.
Talk about ch-ch-changes.
I can't be the only one who watched those Louis Vuitton adverts and thought:?'Ground Control to Major Tom, what the hell are you playing at?'
They're not even good ads, coming across like a 1981 Visage video; renaissance tarts who look like they've fallen face first into a bucket of flour and pasty-faced fops from Blackadder the Third.
I half expected Max Mosley to pop up from behind Conrad Black, performing some cardinal sin.
The whole Dancing In The Street thing with Jagger was bad enough, but that was for charity, so we looked the other way. We turned to the left.
This??It's just terrible. Po-faced beyond parody.
Allegedly, Louis Vuitton burns any unsold bags at the end of the season, although what this has to do with the Championship Play-off final I'm not sure. WAGs probably.
Let's hope they do the decent thing and burn all copies of the Bowie advert at the same time.
He's not alone though, Michael Caine's at it now advertising Sky, along with Harrison?Ford and Dustin Hoffman (Dustin Hoffman!!).
And, worst of all, Al Pacino; The Godfather, Scarface.
Tony Montana hawking broadband.
We can only be grateful he didn't urge us to 'say hello to his liddle friend'. Because no matter how high the pantheon they sit, no matter how many millions nestle in the bank, the ravenous celebrity ego still demands more.
Who knows what fate has robbed us of down the years?
Sid Vicious razor blades? Mama Cass mayonnaise?
Johnny Cash converters?
Well, not me. This column is not for sale.
It's one of the three things I have in common with John Lennon; principles, NHS glasses and some pretty ugly women on my track record.
We should have gone to Specsavers.
