Everything But The Boy

It is June 1988 and I've been invited to Boy George's birthday party. The location is an old railway arch, south of the Thames and everyone must wear a special, luminous T-shirt to get in. Since this is the early days of acid house and most of the singer's friends are mad for the scene, this does not present a problem. But I do feel sorry for George's parents, Gerry and Dinah, who look out of place in their smiley gear.

Two years before, the tabloids had told us that 'Junkie George' had six weeks to live. Certainly he had been damaged by the excesses of the era, but I wrote a sympathetic story at Xmas 1986, detailing his plight. I received a message of thanks and when he returned with a solo effort the following year, I was granted a special audience with the guy.

He was still getting over rehab, and I later found out that there was a problem with prescription drugs. But it was a resonant interview, full of pathos and dark stories and accounts of dead friends. It was the closest I'll ever get to a Judy Garland moment.



'Everything I Own' was a big hit, and he seemed comfortable in the pop firmament again. But his instinct for underground culture took him into the mushrooming dance world, inspiring at least one classic, 'Generations Of Love'.

I met him a bunch of times afterwards and he was always good value. I last saw him at Oxford University, addressing the Union at the invitation of Rabbi Shmuley Boteach. There was wit, intelligence and glamour. I hope that it's not all dissipated.