(30th November 2000)
So, having stuffed himself to the gills, Elton John vomits and the public willingly laps it all up. He, of course, just looks on and smiles in the glare of the spotlight.
Well, he's hardly shy, or publicity shy, is he, our Elton? Hot on the heels of the Elton John Court Comedy Circus that is the dispute over money he's been having with a former manager, comes the third job-lot offload of all the horrendously bobbins clothes he's bought recently and now can't fit into one of his mansions. All for the sake of charidee, though, mate, so we can't begrudge the Brown Dirt Cowboy all those column inches and Narcissus moments on the box, can we?
The reject attire in his last sale three years ago was reputed to have been valued at $4 million whilst raising around $400,000 for his Aids foundation. I suppose that's a better return than the 300 grand he reckons he might've spent on flowers over the space of 20 months because he "likes flowers."
Why can't the bloke give the money straight to the good causes, by-passing the parasitic - sorry, highly deserving - fashion industry to whom he donates a large portion of his income, relieving us of his odious presence on the telly and himself of the need to evacuate himself in public every few years.
But what does it say about our society that so many sad fuckers are desperate to rush into his shop like grannies at the Scout's jumble sale to buy all his tasteless old tack? What is it about celebrity these days that makes us want to associate with it? Why on earth would any fool want to pay 30 quid for a pair of red desert boots that may or may not have been worn by Elton -- or his partner?
Like Elton's sartorial bulimia, it's sickening.
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