See what I did there? I posted a picture before writing any words. I have no idea why I did that. I just felt like it. That’s what I love about being a lone blogger operating on my Umdloti verandah with only 500 birds, 50 vervet monkeys, two Jack Russells and a nutty unicyclist to deal with in a day.
I can do what I like. No newspaper editor to say: “No, Hatman, you can’t put a picture above the story on that page. Have you gone mad?” Editors are prone to asking stupid questions.
OK. So you’re wondering why a blogger with an impeccable record for not ever gratuitously dropping naked photographs of anybody, let alone 90s supermodels – or even my close friend Genevieve Morton – on my blog is doing posting a picture of uberbeauty Helena Christensen wearing only a small range of wristwatches.
Reasonable question. So I’ll answer it. It’s so I have an excuse to tell you a story about the time I stared into Helena’s eyes. And what eyes! Indescribable. But, of course, I’ll try. The colour of the water immediately below the surface in an isolated cove where nobody has ever gone before somewhere on the remotest island of the Maldives is the closest I can do for you. Hardly Oscar Wilde but it’ll have to do. Aquamarine. Helena’s eyes. With a hint of turquoise gently blended with indigo and offset by a drop of battleship grey. If I remember correctly. And I do. First, before I relate my “I stared into Helena’s eyes” anecdote (no pork content), please run yours over another pic of Hels, this time with friends Claudia and Eva…
Nice to see the girls have been keeping fit, isn’t it? Back to my story. OK. So my girlfriend at the time – Kate, London, circa 1994 – had a friend whose boyfriend owned the Brixton Academy. We got VIP passes for every show. The Stones played a warm-up gig for a global tour there one night. It was celeb/supermodel overload. I went to the bar to get in the drinks. Unknowingly got wedged in behind Paula Yates (y’know, Bob Geldof’s late missus) who was waving her hands about while talking to Chris Evans (Google him if you have to). I looked around. Simon and Yasmin le Bon. Linda Evangelista. No Christy Turlington (I don’t think). Dave Stewart had his back to me. Which I thought quite rude at the time. Also present were a small galaxy whose names I won’t bother to drop. Only because I can’t remember.