For a bit of extra pocket money, I also supply nuggets of gossip and information to showbiz sites. You might be surprised by how many reporters who are fully employed at magazines and TV stations also do this on the quiet. I’d illicitly done it myself a couple of times during my early career, but as someone always afraid of small print in contracts, I’d been wary of going overboard and ending up in trouble with my boss. Now I’m a freelancer, however, I can supply titbits to whomever I want. All journalists have their sources but many are also sources themselves. Knowing that a bit of information can put food on your table certainly keeps your senses keen.
The last few years haven’t been easy, though. As the financial world continues to hover on the edge of a meltdown that I really don’t understand, some work has dried up simply because companies can’t afford to pay any more; getting a staff member who is already on a fixed salary to do some extra work costs nothing. Paying me, on the other hand, is a luxury that some outlets feel they can do without.
Despite the dangers involved with being self-employed, I love it. It only makes the buzz of getting a story even more exciting, more of a challenge. My accountant may wish that I’d never strayed away from the organised world of a staff job and a salary, especially when he looks at the state of my book-keeping, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Waiting around for celebrities might be part and parcel of my job, but no one has it as bad as bodyguards. A celebrity bodyguard needs to have the patience of a saint. Security men are meant to be on hand at all times to protect megastar X from any unwanted hassle or attention, but at the same time they have to be steadfast and invisible. In other words, they have a huge responsibility with none of the rewards. I encounter these boys all the time in my line of work – silent man-mountains who stand outside hotel-room doors or hover a few steps back on red carpets. Whatever is thrown their way, they display no emotion. As the owner of probably the worst poker face in the business, I never cease to be impressed by bodyguards.
Admittedly, even in all my years in the business, I’ve never actually seen a bodyguard have to do anything vaguely approaching combat. There has been the occasional moment where a bodyguard has had to spread their arms out wide to hold back the paparazzi or a bunch of hormonal teenage fans, but in all honesty, it seems that most of their time is just spent standing around, looking ‘hard’. And, unless bodyguards have some kind of zen-like meditative strengths, they must be bored out of their minds. It certainly doesn’t seem as exciting as Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston made it out to be.
Having security in one’s employ appears to have become less about safety and more about status for celebrities. Katy Perry or Rihanna having a bodyguard is one thing, but I’ve seen random, mid-level male actors with them too – having a bodyguard as a mark of importance instead of for protection. There’s a story that this is exactly what rock legend David Bowie did when he first went to America in the early seventies; Bowie supposedly hired an entourage of brutes to make him look like a superstar in a country where he was virtually unknown. With Bowie’s famous theatricality that kind of works – he taught Lady Gaga everything she knows – but a boring B-Lister in need of an ego boost is something else altogether.
It was one of these B-Listers who became the subject of the only story I’ve ever wheedled out of a bodyguard. This lone security man was on hire 24/7, and one day found himself accompanying his ‘celebrity’ client on an all-night drinking session around the booze dens of London without, of course, being able to touch a drop himself. He stood and watched in bar after bar, all the while maintaining the appearance that he was ready to pounce on any crazed fan that might throw themselves on this star, even though he knew that was highly unlikely to happen. I got talking to the big man before a junket the next morning while he stood in a hotel corridor and, while not exactly talkative (getting bodyguards to crack a smile is difficult enough, let alone persuading them to talk), he was so exhausted that his normal reticence was certainly less on show. His charge was in his hotel suite, he told me, pointing to the door behind him. In a bid to recover from his long night of partying this Hollywood-nearly man was getting a rejuvenating massage and plentiful room service. All my burly friend had to prepare himself with was a black coffee and a muffin, hardly fuel for another long day of standing outside a hotel room, looking tough. ‘I spent all bloody night playing gooseberry,’ he said, his stony face finally cracking under the strain. ‘I just had to loiter in the background as he snogged the face off some girl he picked up. And the worst thing is, he wants to do it all again tonight.’ I got the story of the young Lothario into a couple of papers the next day, but I couldn’t feel guilty – it made a pretty boring actor sound like a real stud, so I was probably doing him a favour.
As for the bodyguard … I salute you. You might think that being paid to essentially do nothing sounds like the greatest job in the world, but as my beefy friend will tell you, even doing nothing is tough when all you want is your bed.
It’s two in the morning and I’m in a cab heading north after a night out in Soho, drunkenly watching the pounds on the meter going up and up and up. I make the same mental note that I always make in this situation, a worryingly regular occurrence: next time, Holly, just get the last train home.
Thankfully, my friend Daisy is in full swing:
‘He likes both – girls and boys. Quite handy really. He’s got this image of being a ladies’ man – y’know, sells his films on it and everything – and the fact is, that’s true. You can’t argue with it. It’s just that he also secretly bats for the other team too. Once you know about it, I actually think it’s pretty obvious. Have you seen how much he hangs out with his mum, ha ha ha?’
No combination of letters could accurately capture Daisy’s laugh, a piercing Cockney cackle that’s potently amplified when lubricated with two bottles of wine. Be glad that you’re only reading this, and not listening to it. But Daisy’s great fun, and an even better source.
As a showbiz reporter you need to have a network of contacts to rely on for stories. It’s true that these days a lot of gossip magazines and websites just make things up and try to pass it off as a fact by writing ‘a source says’. And that’s fine if the celeb in question isn’t fond of taking people to court, or if they’re a reality star who, as a breed, are normally so desperate they’ll take any publicity they can get. In fact, they probably planted the story in the first place. For most of us, though, we need a source to get the facts needed for an article.
One of the few benefits of my dull journalist training is that I’m rigorous about my sources as a result. If a contact leads me to definite proof of a story, then their friendship is entirely worth the endless pounds I’ve spent on drinks and food in the bar cultivating it. Daisy is one of those sources; though we’ve become so close it thankfully doesn’t feel like a business arrangement.
Daisy is a stylist-to-the-stars and a fount of information. For many celebrities, their stylist is their best friend. Most celebs aren’t inherently chic. Sorry, but it’s true. While our daily routine might only boast things as humdrum as running for the tube and painting our nails on the bus, a star’s would include sessions with trainers and visits from manicurists and designers to make them look flawless. And it’s understandable; if my picture was going to be in every gossip mag and website going then I’d invest in looking close to perfect too. Since being preened and pampered