The Sunday Times - UK (2021-11-28)

The Sunday Times November 28, 2021 31

NEWS

I haven’t had much call to

stay in London hotel rooms,

having lived in the capital

for over two decades, until

this spring, when I packed

up and moved to

Manchester. Now, needing

to travel south for work (or

even pleasure), I find myself

something of a regular user.

And here’s my observation:

London and its hotel rooms

have a thing against light or,

you know, the people who

need it to survive.

As I trawl booking sites,

wincing at the prices, many

of the sub-£250 rooms I click

on flash with an almost

breezy warning: “No

windows!” That

exclamation mark is doing a

lot of work. “Hey, guys,” it

They say it’s grim up north,

but it’s dark down south

says, “that no-window thing

isn’t really a problem, is it?”

Since when were those

panes of glass inserted into

brick so that you could not

only look outside but also

avoid feeling as if you’ve

been buried alive

considered a luxury?

Premium features in hotels

used to mean a roll-top bath,

matching robes or Cowshed

products lining the shower.

Now it means basics that

make you feel like a human

being. So, no, I didn’t book

the window-less room,

reassured by the

exclamation mark. I paid an

extra 50 quid for what

London would have you

believe is the very height of

luxury: windows.

Who’s that banging away at the

typewriter? Look out ... here’s Terri!

When I left my job as

editor-in-chief of the film

magazine Empire, I was

mainly worried about earning

enough to pay the rent and

finding a half-decent

accountant. But as the days

and weeks ticked by, my

mind started to loosen and

rattle slightly. I like my own

company, but just me, inside

my own head, with only the

same blank, silent page for

company eight hours a day?

No, thank you. All work

(alone) and no play... well,

you know the rest.

After 21 years of working full-

time as an editor and writer

in London and New York, I

recently went freelance.

Along with my job security

and regular wage, I lost the

office (virtual or otherwise)

and, perhaps more

importantly, the people in it.

And let me say that, after

always having felt for Shelley

Duvall in The Shining (weird

kid, cold house, husband

talking to ghosts), over the

past few weeks it’s Jack

Nicholson’s John Torrance —

alone with his typewriter and

blank page — that I’ve

developed if not sympathy

(he’s a fictional psychopath,

after all) then an

understanding for.

Let me explain. Boy, did I

get a kick out of office life. I

liked the camaraderie, the

daily rituals and reassuring

rhythms, spending time

shoulder to shoulder with

people who, to quote Tim

from The Office, I often had

little in common with other

than the fact we walked

around on the same bit of

carpet for eight hours a day.

lJust 21 months into his

life, I was at my son’s very

first parents’ evening. We’d

done all right, I thought.

He’s happy and funny and

hasn’t yet shown a desire to

pull the legs off baby

spiders.

“There’s just one thing,” I

said to his nursery worker.

“On his language — he says a

couple of words, but he’s

just started shouting

‘cheese’. I mean, it is usually

when he wants a snack, but

still.”

She smiled the smile that

they must reserve for

clueless parents. “We’ve

been teaching them to say

‘please’,” she said with

more compassion than I

deserved. My mind went to

the empty Babybel bag, his

finger-pointing pleading

towards the snack

cupboard. In truth, I’d been

so worried about keeping

him alive that it never

occurred to me to make sure

he was polite, too.

Knocked out

all over again

by Rocky IV

The single film I’ve seen most

is Rocky IV.

After the first time at the

age of seven, above the pub

my mum was working in, I’ve

watched it north of 300

times.

There’ll be those who need

a case for Rocky IV, and it’s

this: Sylvester Stallone’s

writing is excellent (Apollo

Creed’s speech about boxing,

masculinity and ageing can’t

be bettered), the soundtrack

glorious and the fight scenes

choreographed with

precision.

So I was thrilled to be

asked to review the new

director’s cut for Empire, the

film magazine I used to edit.

This was to be my first time

ever seeing it at the pictures,

and sitting there, glass of

wine in one hand, hotdog in

the other, as Dolph Lundgren

once again deadpanned, “If

he dies, he dies!” was easily

the highlight of the entire

year so far for me. It was like

the first time all over again.

Terri White

Week Ending

NEWMAN’S

VIEW

I

t was with not an inconsiderable

amount of professional fascination

that I watched the Australian

reporter Matt Doran give a lengthy

on-air apology to Adele last week.

Doran, who I guess is the country’s

equivalent of Susanna Reid, had

been flown to London to carry out

Australia’s “only interview” with the

singer as part of a deal that cost a million

dollars.

Somewhere along the line this

painted little daytime bean had failed to

listen to more than one track from her

new album. This enraged the singer so

much, she demanded a full public

apology: unbelievably, Doran’s

employers agreed.

“I’ve insulted Adele,” he howled at the

end of a show, saying he deserved the

“torrent of abuse and mockery”. He

continued: “To Adele I say, I’d never

have knowingly disrespected you by

deliberately not listening to your work.”

Then he begged for “forgiveness”.

To which I say: have we all gone mad?

Crawling to a primadonna who’s thrown

a pathetic tantrum is something I expect

from North Korea. Reading the book or

listening to the album is useful — but

failing to do so is not a crime, especially

if you simply “missed” the unmarked

email that contained a link to her new

album, as Doran did. If you are a proper

interviewer — a jaded hardcore cow like

moi — the album isn’t the point, anyway.

The idea is to get them to talk about

something they aren’t promoting. To get

to the truth.

What is the truth? It isn’t what would

have been broadcast: 29 minutes of

approved nothingness. For months now

we’ve been hearing endless amniotic

guff about her divorce: I thought it was

impossible to make break-ups boring,

but somehow Adele has. Does anyone

want any more discussion of “the

concept of pure artistry”, “the majesty

of Adele’s voice” or how “Go Easy on Me

was conceived in part by singing a

cappella in the shower”, an anecdote

she has now been hawking for over two

months? Doran has apologised to the

“viewers”, but in fact he is my hero for

inadvertently shielding them from yet

another tedious infomercial.

No one is saying what they think any

more. The risks seem too big, the fans

too angry — to look at this poor, hollow

man, you’d think someone had been

killed. What hope has anyone of what

Doran called “insight” if people like him

are being held to ransom by braindead,

money-obsessed middle managers who

would ideally like to have done the

interview themselves, just to be on the

safe side? Adele should be embarrassed

for participating in such an orgy of

greed-driven fakery. Although, having

watched ITV’s horrific An Audience with

Adele, I sense self-respect and modesty

are not among her gifts.

Wouldn’t it have been better PR for

her — if that’s what she cares about — to

behave with sympathy and grace? She is

always telling us how compassionate she

is, and she must know bad things

happen in interviews. Tapes break; tech

doesn’t work; PRs screw up. I have

always carried three recorders since I

interviewed Michelle Mone about her

divorce: halfway through her tearful

breakdown, the device broke. Unlike

Adele, Mone literally paused her tears

and waited until I fixed it. Even divas can

show good manners. Martin Amis kindly

granted me a second interview after I

turned on my tape and all I could hear

was him saying “nrhrn nhrrhnh”.

If Doran were minded to tell the truth

about his encounter, he’d probably

reveal an equally relatable story of jet lag

and serious incompetence — although

not his. He missed the album because no

one told him they’d be sending the link

in an email that didn’t mention Adele. It

is amusing to me how, in all his

bumbling and desperation to get it right,

he accidentally revealed the truth of the

situation: that Adele is a star now so

consumed by her ego that she will

squish an inconvenient reporter before

It’s not something you expect

to see more than once an

hour: Madonna’s butthole.

But it was there again on

Thursday: the 63-year-old

pop star posted a pic of

herself face down on the

floor, fishnets straining,

rummaging under a bed.

What was she looking for?

A Rice Krispie? A stray South

American model/waiter/

whatever? I’m not one of

those who scream at her to

put her clothes back on and

Another pic of the week is

surely the MP Stella Creasy,

snapped at a dinner late on

Wednesday with her

three-month-old son.

We’re told that this was

part of a publicity push to

highlight the lack of

maternity cover for female

MPs after Creasy was told

she must no longer bring him

into debates at the House of

Commons.

It was not “practical to

leave him somewhere else”,

she warbled, as she was

breastfeeding, so he had to

“come with me for now”.

I don’t buy any of it. I don’t

think he needs to be in the

chamber when there is a

crèche only metres away,

and I don’t believe she can’t

pump. I don’t think the needs

of female MPs are that

pressing, when there are only

200 of them in the country

and they have excellent

maternity provision already.

For ordinary women

labouring at the nappy face

from six until midnight or

more, how does all this look?

It must seem very strange

to watch a posh woman,

dressed not unlike Emma

Thompson, parading her

baby at parties in some must-

have sling and telling people

it is her human right to get

her breasts out in front of

Boris Johnson.

retain some “dignity”. She’s

been dry-humping national

flags for decades — get over

it. But this time I admit I

enjoyed the response.

There was an avalanche of

merciless memes with bums

out. The TV presenter

Anneka Rice said: “Madonna

and I are exactly the same

age. If I tried that, I’d never be

able to get up.” If there’s one

positive to take from social

media, it’s the ability to mock

stupid celebrities.

Nothing like Madonna’s bum

to have us rolling on the floor

Most new

mums would

kill to have

Creasy’s woes

The idea is to

get the star

to talk about

something

they aren’t

promoting

Matt Doran,

Australia’s

equivalent of

Susanna Reid,

delivered a

painful on-air

apology for not

having listened

to Adele’s new

album before

interviewing her

swiping an interview she dislikes off air.

The record label controlled the footage:

how does that even happen?

I’m even beginning to wonder if

research is overrated. I remember

commissioning a famous novelist to

interview Katie Price. She told me she

didn’t want to read loads of previous

articles because she wanted to be

original. Larry King, the late-night chat

show host, cared so little for being a

greasy swot, he’d interview people

without knowing who they were. If he

failed to understand what they were

saying, he’d just shout: “Why?”

I wish someone like him would

interview Adele. “I wrote an album to

get over my divorce,” she’d say. “Why?”

he’d scream. “I’ve written an album

about it,” she’d warble. “Why?”

Control-freak Adele shows there is

now no point to celebrity interviews

COMMENT

Camilla Long

CLIFF LIPSON/CBS/GETTY IMAGES