Stifling stuff. Sting is waffling here about his uppity wife Trudie Styler, sounding like he is stranded somewhere on the moon.
“She is my orbit. She is my central point. She grounds me. It is important to me that I have something to orbit. Is she a sun or a moon? I don’t know.”
Come off it, mate! Okay, you’re rolling in it, the pair of you. But here’s a word in your earring. Too much tosh there. Better you down a couple of pints with your old pal Jimmy Nail and have him help you get down off that cloud.
I told you, didn’t I, about the morning The Police – Sting, plain Gordon Sumner then and the cornerstone of the Eighties band – and your columnist bonded over mugs of coffee in the Waverley Station buffet?
You mean you want that episode re-told? Sorry. Don’t have the space. However . . . used to be li’l ol’ wine drinker, me. Now it’s li’l ol’ name-dropper.
Sometimes termed a disease, endemic among newspaper hacks.
Thinking back to Dick Van Dyke and when we met here in Edinburgh. You won’t believe that either but the Evening News recorded the earth-shattering occasion.
We’ve just heard that Mister Mary Poppins at 86 has wed again. She’s 40. Good luck to him. He was married then but I can’t recall which wife. Sick Van Dyke.
Afterwords . .
. . . So Engelbert will be the UK’s rep in the Eurovision. The latest photos are saying it all. Truly we are indebted to the airbrush. We’ve got to see this year’s “contest”. I’ve only one word of advice for you, Engel. DON’T. Just DON’T. (You’ll be telling us you met him, too? Oddly enough, no. Je ne regret.)