Poor old Rick Buckler. He had just spent an entire weekend doing Q&A’s at a Belfast book festival promoting his autobiography That’s Entertainment. I’m sure as he plonked his arse down on he aisle seat of flight IMZ6XS he must have thought he was home and hosed. Having signed all the books, taken pictures with fans, shaked a thousand hands, it was time for some well-deserved shut eye.
But what’s this? It’s a plucky hungover lifestyle journalist making small talk about his managers Millwall tattoos. He’s wearing a Jaguar cap but drives an Audi 80. He’s name dropping all the C-list celebrities that he’s met in a lift, he’s trying so hard to qualify himself. He looks so inoffensive and now he’s asked for an interview for his tiny tiny magazine. He already has his notebook open, his dictaphone in hand (I said dictaphone) and I think he might be crying.
Poor old Rick Buckler has nowhere to turn. If only he had a slither of pomposity in him, or like his former frontman, a supercilious reputation to precede him. If only he was a master in the arts of bastardry, a foreboding unapproachable misery that no one would dare bother making small talk with on an economy class flight, let alone be audacious enough to ask for an interview. Unfortunately Rick Buckler has neither of these qualities/character flaws to draw upon. Reluctantly he swaps seats with his manager, the journalist mops away a joyous tear and clicks record..