Why Tricky appeared on stage with Beyoncé at Glastonbury

BEYONCÉ
Hi, is this the craggy trip-hop veteran Tricky?

TRICKY
That depends on who’s asking.

BEYONCÉ
It’s Beyoncé.

TRICKY
As in Knowles? This is a wind-up, right? You better not be the same tosser who called claiming he was Bono.

BEYONCÉ
No, this is definitely Beyoncé. And don’t ever mention Bono around me again.

TRICKY
If you’re really Beyoncé, then, why are you calling… me?

BEYONCÉ
I’m a big fan of yours! Big, big fan.

TRICKY
Oh yeah? What’s your favourite album of mine?

BEYONCÉ
Sorry, you’re breaking up. It’s a bad line.

TRICKY
Oh.

BEYONCÉ
I actually have a question – or favour – to ask you, Mr Tricky.

TRICKY
It’s just Tricky.

BEYONCÉ
Of course. Sorry. You’re not married.

TRICKY
Is this going to take long? I’m in the studio today mastering my new album.

[BEYONCÉ laughs uproariously]

TRICKY
Something funny?

BEYONCÉ
Oh, errm… yeah. Just remembering one of the lines I had in the Austin Powers film Goldmember. What a great movie! You seen it?

TRICKY
No. What’s the question?

BEYONCÉ
Basically, I’m after a special guest for my Glastonbury show.

TRICKY
Right, I know this is a wind-up now. This is exactly what ‘Bono’ said to me the other day.

BEYONCÉ
That ego-crazed bastard! Always hijacking my best ideas. Do you know he even tried to pass the ‘Single Ladies’ dance off as his own? His glasses kept coming off – the choreographer was doubled up laughing.

TRICKY
So you want me to appear on stage with you at Glastonbury?

BEYONCÉ
Yes. For one song. Maybe half a song. Or a third.

TRICKY
But , why me??

BEYONCÉ
We need a special guest, and I want it to be someone a bit leftfield, a bit edgy. A bit nineties as well. This is Glastonbury, not Party in the Park. I workshopped it with Jay and we agreed that you were the ideal candidate.

TRICKY (flattered)
Well, that’s really nice of you to say. That’s amazing – thank you so much.

BEYONCÉ
I mean, we asked Beth Gibbons first, from Portishead.

TRICKY (not flattered)
What?!

BEYONCÉ
But the cow had already agreed to appear with Lady Gaga. And we were too late to get Mushroom from Massive Attack – he was snapped up by some hired muscle representing Adele.

TRICKY
You asked both of them before me?!

BEYONCÉ
Among others. And if you turn us down, I’m putting a call in to Paul Godfrey from Morcheeba. He’s the bassist, or something. The noises from his agent have been very positive so far.

TRICKY
Stop it! Please, no more. I’m in. Count me in. What do I do?

BEYONCÉ
Not a lot. Just dance. There’ll be a mic but it won’t be switched on.

TRICKY
Won’t the audience be a bit surprised to see me bob up after all these years?

BEYONCÉ
Not really. We have a powerful lightshow planned – we’ll strobe the audience for the 30 seconds you’re on stage. They won’t be able to see you. In fact, their retinas won’t be the same again.

TRICKY
30 seconds? Is that all I get?

BEYONCÉ
I might let you back on during the encore… for five seconds, say. If you stand discreetly behind the grand piano.

TRICKY
I’m not sure about this.

BEYONCÉ
Look, I have that bloke from Morcheeba on the other line. I’m sure he’s not one to split hairs over minor details like that.

TRICKY
OK, fuck it, OK! I’ll do it.

BEYONCÉ
Excellent. I’ll get my manager to shoot over our waiver and consent forms and we’ll be good to go.

TRICKY
What’s that?

BEYONCÉ
It’s a binding agreement that releases us from any liability should your time on stage go, let’s say… badly. It stops you from suing me or Jay if, for instance, you become the laughing stock of the many millions watching and your career dies an embarrassing death thereafter.

[A long pause]

BEYONCÉ (breezily)
But that won’t happen, so you have nothing to worry about. Right?

A thrilled Tricky appearing with Beyoncé

The News of the World Phone Hacking Brouhaha

The News of the World phone-hacking scandal has convulsed the media and political landscape in recent months. I speak to former News of the World journalist Ed Hacker, who has broken ranks to ‘tell it like it really is.’

When accusations of widespread phone hacking first emerged in 2006, the News of the World vehemently denied any wrongdoing. Parent company News Corp said they felt ‘hurt and emotionally bruised’ at the claims and, later, Reuters released pictures of founder Rupert Murdoch weeping without abandon on his $300m private powerboat. Two weeks later the company admitted partial liability, and promised a ‘zero-tolerance crackdown’ on illegal practices. In the six months that followed, 22 journalists were told to clear their desks and a further 19 were put on gardening leave.

Ed Hacker was one of them. ‘I was put on gardening leave,’ he says. ‘Can you believe it? Me? I could make a joke about not even having a garden, but there’s no humour in this situation – only agony.’ He pauses, before breaking into a devilish grin. ‘I do have a garden, actually, but’s all crazy paving.’

I meet Hacker in a crowded branch of Café Nero on Portabello Road. For a long time we can’t get a seat, and there are screaming kids running around everywhere. The situation escalates as a particularly lawless tyke tries to pilfer my iPad. ‘We can’t go anywhere else, I’m afraid,’ consoles Hacker. ‘They have free wi-fi here, and I quite fancy one of the baristas. She’s called Maria.’ He gives me a conspiratorial wink. ‘She does pilates, if you know what I mean.’

Before I have time to tell him that I don’t, Hacker suddenly launches into a foul-mouthed rant about his treatment at the hands of his former employers. It is forceful stuff. He also has a habit of spitting a little when he gets agitated and before long my face and bust are covered with a layering of sputum. A lady sitting at a nearby table asks me if it is raining outside. Diplomatically, I say yes. Luckily, a table becomes free at this stage and I’m able to go at the napkins.

Hacker was a senior, long-term servant of the Sunday newspaper. ‘When I first joined, the News of the World was basically a skinmag. Not for nothing was it called the “Screws of the World” by detractors. It was all hardcore porn and B&Q adverts. I changed all that. Overnight we became a respectable publication, with cerebral articles about celebrity gossip interspersed with corporate rightwing propaganda. It made the owner happy, and it was a winning business model. It proved you didn’t need full-frontal nudity to get good sales figures – just top-half nudity.’ He reflects. ‘And maybe a bit of tush.’

When I probe him about phone-hacking he becomes more evasive. He hastily leaves his seat to head to the gents, where he remains for half an hour. I notice the barista, Maria, looking over. Is it possible that she fancies Hacker, and is wondering where he’s disappeared to? She may even be looking at me. Maria’s quite attractive, really, and I’m beginning to understand what Hacker meant by the pilates reference. I’m just popping some Tic-Tacs and readying myself to go over, when Hacker returns.

He leans in and begins whispering. ‘Look, it wasn’t my idea to start the phone hacking crap.’ He looks agitated, and his wrinkled face is suddenly very close to mine. I’m struck with a fear that Maria might get the wrong idea about us. Also, he’s started spitting again (the effects are magnified by our physical proximity). ‘I had a dotted line responsibility to Murdoch, and sales for that quarter had slumped. When Andy suggested hacking into Coleen Rooney’s blinged-up BlackBerry, it was – from a business standpoint – very difficult for me to say no.’ He muses for a spell. ‘I’m also very, very nosy and intrusive by nature. Everyone hates me.’

I ask him whether the ‘Andy’ in question is Andy Coulson – who would later become David Cameron’s controversial communications director. Again, Hacker grows evasive. ‘That lies outside the domain of this conversation,’ he intones. The shutters have come down and Hacker retreats to the john again – for a full hour this time. However, upon his return he opens up. ‘Yeah.’ He laughs and takes a swig of cold mocha. ‘It was Coulson. Coulso! He was a fucking laugh, that guy.’

Hacker then launches into an account of the phone hacking procedure. ‘Because we had a deal with BT, it was cheaper to phone-hack on evenings and weekends. We started with the talking clock. That was difficult because it loves to chinwag and is never off the phone. Eventually we managed to hack into its messages, though they were eye-wateringly dull. We sold them to the Independent, who ran a po-faced piece about Time and the effects of climate change on Madagascan lemurs. Don’t ask.’

‘That was the thin end of the wedge. Before long we were all at it, phone-hacking like it was going out of fashion. Politicians, royalty, footballers, loss-adjusters, milkmen, roach exterminators – no one was too big or small to be a target. Phone hacking became second nature to me. I learned to speed-dial phone-hack. I was even hacking into my own messages – that was the only way I’d listen to them. I’d always wanted a job where I was adding to the sum of human happiness, and I’d finally got one. When I got arrested and jailed, I couldn’t believe it.’

Hacker pauses, wondering if he has said too much. I assure him that he hasn’t, hoping my pleased-as-punch grin doesn’t suggest otherwise. As we part, I ask him if he plans to make a move on Maria. ‘Nah,’ he replies. ‘I hacked into her phone will I was in the bog. She has a boyfriend called Clive. Also, she doesn’t really do pilates, if you know what I mean.’ I still don’t, but we part amicably.

Some names have been changed to protect identity. Maria is a pseudonym for my wife, and Ed Hacker is really my brother

A mobile phone (being hacked)

The Olympic Ticketing Fiasco

Bryan F had applied for a big, big number of tickets for the London Olympics, and was facing the realisation that he had failed to get any tickets whatsoever. His brother, Ryan, had also missed out. It was a source of vexation.

‘So we didn’t get tickets,’ said Bryan. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘In a strange headspace about it, really. There’s a sense of complete failure, but there’s also anger. At everyone from Clegg downwards basically. At my worst moments, I believe the whole thing was a state-sponsored exercise in disappointment, like the Millennium Dome all over again.’

‘But we got tickets for el ‘Dome, didn’t we?’

‘Exactly. My point exactly.’

‘Ah, I understand.’

The brothers were pretty grim about how things had turned out. They had initially applied in a blizzard of excitement, believing that it was a near-certainty that they would get upwards of one ticket between them. After some deliberation, they even threw their hat in the ring for the Men’s 100m Final Ticket Ballot.

‘Coe will never expect us to apply for this, let’s do it.’

‘It’s the one everyone wants, isn’t it? Seb will assume we won’t bother to apply for such an oversubscribed event. I say, fuck him.’

‘Let’s do a double-bluff and apply, while pretending that we’re not sure whether we applied or not.’

‘I don’t really understand what you meant there, but I’m still happy to go along with this.’

They also applied, in a fit of simple greed, for some really quite expensive tickets, usually reserved for sponsors, hospitality, international sporting federations, or relatives of dictators, like Gadaffi.

‘Think on this. If we get these, Lord Sugar will courier them over to our house personally, once the cheque has cleared.’

‘I hope we get these.’

‘I meant Lord Coe, by the way, not ‘Sugar. My bad.’

‘I knew very well which of the Lords you meant, don’t sweat it.’

Come deadline day, they had each applied for tickets with a cumulative value of £1000 or slightly less. The war chest was finally empty.

‘If we get the tickets we want, I’ll stand you a drink at the bar tonight. How does that sound?’

‘But we won’t find out whether we got the tickets for a while yet.’

‘Irrelevant. Though I take your point.’

As stated above, in the end both brothers failed to get tickets. One of their friends had managed to, but things were very awkward with him and I can’t really go into details why. Annoyingly, he kind of owed them, since they had got him tickets for the Millennium Dome all those years ago.

‘I don’t think he owes us for that, does he? He hated it. That’s why things are so awkward between us now. We forced him to go and he really had a rotten day at the Dome, worse than at Tussauds.’

‘Irrelevant. Though I take your point.’

The scales had properly fallen from their eyes. Lord Coe had ceased to represent all that was finest and fairest in humankind. The brothers agreed to cancel their tickets to the O2 to see Colin Jackson give an important talk about hurdling/dancing, even though they would have had a grandstand view of the diminutive Welsh man.

Unbelievable.

Isle of Man Festival – Review

Isle of Man National Park, Isle of Man

The Isle of Man festival closed as it has every year in recent memory – with murderous thunderstorms, gale-force winds, and an indefatigable crowd of revellers lapping up the various attractions on offer. This year saw the biggest-ever attendance at ‘ManFest’, with a crowd of 302 (including 17 weekend campers) setting sail to the sprawling 1,000 hectare site to see headline acts Boy George, Metallica and Des’Ree.

Isle of Man is nothing if not a unique event in the overcrowded festival calendar. The weather is adverse, to say the least, with conditions more akin to those on the promenade deck of a P&O ferry amid a particularly rough overnight crossing. Rare is the tent that is not flattened within the first hour by the one-two punch of violent wind and rain. And those that do survive become fodder for roving bands of local youths, who annihilate all tents and water points they come across (no one has found out why).

But all is part of Isle of Man’s peculiar charm. Festival founder, and former Olympic triple-jump champion, Jonathan Edwards opened proceedings on Friday by introducing rapper Terry Maxx, who duly delivered a terrible set – only redeemed by eternal crowd-pleaser ‘Walkin’ in the Name’. By this point, the area around the main stage had become a heap of clotted mud and several festival-goers had reported to the medical tent, suffering angst. It took Boy George to raise sprits, which he singularly failed to do, delivering a plodding series of pedestrian cover versions, including ‘Starman’ and ‘Untitled’ by Sigur Ros.

By the time Metallica played the following day, only the most stoical festival-goers remained. The rest were safely ensconced in a local Travelodge, presumably recharging their batteries for festival-closer Des’Ree – whose gigs are infamous for their orgiastic passion and waves of sectarian violence. Indeed, the crowd was certainly at its most raucous on Sunday night, waving medium-sized flags and drinking Carling lager by the half-pint. Sadly, her most celebrated song, ‘Life’, was plagued by technical problems that muted the music and left only the vocal audible. The audience were left in stitches as the sheer inanity of the lyric hit home: ‘”I don’t want to see a ghost, it’s the sight that I fear most, I’d rather have a piece of toast, watch the evening news.”  A humiliated Des’Ree left the stage in tears, though she did return for a triumphant encore – a cover of ‘Karma Chameleon’, which Boy George had forgotten to perform on Friday.

Jonathan Edwards made a final appearance as the curtain came down on another Isle of Man festival, thanking the crowd for their patronage and invoicing them one-by-one for any additional expenses they had incurred while on the site.

Des'Ree - left the stage in tears (after hearing her own lyrics)

Great French Open Champions

BJORN BORG

Overview
The ‘ice man’ (Bjorn Borg) won six French Open titles in five years – an unequalled haul of trophies. The organisers made him sit out the next year’s competition, to even out the statistics. Borg refused, but lost in the quarter-finals anyway.

Racket?
Borg famously used a wooden racket that was only available by mail order from California. If the strings broke during a match, everyone would have to wait ten days to allow for delivery of a replacement. This posed a problem to TV schedulers, who began showing reruns of classic tennis games to fill the time. Cliff Richard was regularly contacted to regale the crowd, but his delivery time was ten to twelve days nominal.

But would he beat Tim Henman?
Henman and Borg never met during their careers (which did not overlap), depriving us of what would have been an electrifying contest. Borg was the better player, but Henman, on his day, could beat anyone (his day, unfortunately, was February 29th).

IVAN LENDL

Overview
Lendl’s baseline power and high cheekbones brought him three French Open crowns during the 1980s. However, the famously hard-to-please French crowd did not take to Lendl, regarding him as an over-promoted volleyball player. Not without justification – Lendl would routinely hit the ball more than once when it was on his side of the net. Also, he did not use a racket.

Racket?
No racket.

But would he beat Tim Henman?
Yes. It would not be a close contest. The sheer weight and accuracy of Lendl’s groundstrokes would force Henman further and further back until he was pinned flat against the advertising board at the back of the court. Then Lendl would play a dinky dropshot, which a tired and slow Henman would have scant chance of reaching. This play would repeat in every point until Henman retired injured – to be interviewed by a sympathetic Sue Barker.

RAFAEL NADAL

Overview
Nadal is widely regarded as the greatest clay court exponent the game has ever seen (he also has the biggest muscles on tour, just beating the Williams sisters). Famously, Nadal has only ever lost once at the French Open, and that was to himself. In an effort to impress the intellectual French crowd (who love existentialist philosophy) he played a match against himself in the semi-finals of the 2009 tournament, losing 6-4 in the fifth.

Racket?
He sure makes a racket, with all that grunting! Joking aside, Nadal uses a normal modern kind of racket – a yellow one, usually.

But would he beat Tim Henman?
My granny could beat Tim Henman. Though she did have a great forehand and fine array of passing shots.

TIM HENMAN

Overview
Plucky ‘tiger’ Tim Henman never progressed beyond the first round of any tennis competition, not even pub tennis. However, he has come to be regarded as one of the greats in French Open history and is feted by the French crowds to this day, who regularly chant his name (‘Tim, Tim’ – only in French, obviously). This is one of the side-effects of ‘Henmania’, a disease millions in France sadly contracted by eating British beef in the 1990s.

Racket?
Henman only used the best, most expensive racket available. Needless to say, he still lost and then smashed the racket out of frustration (losing his deposit).

But would he beat Tim Henman?
No. Though he would beat Greg Rusedski.

My Running Diary

DAY ONE
Have resolved to get in shape. My fitness is off. I have a resting heart-rate of 167 and a body mass index that’s attracted the attention of BBC Three documentary-makers (they want to put me in My Man Boobs and Me). I’m sure my good lady wife is still attracted to me, but we haven’t had sex since a quickie in 1994 – one that left me out of breath. Things need to change. Have started a diary, to document my quest to ascend to athletic godhood.

DAY TWO
Warmed up to go running. Stretched the legs and readied a motivational playlist of critically-acclaimed music from the ‘80s and ‘00s. My first run was encouraging! I paced myself against an old woman across the road who was walking a fat little sausage dog – a race I comfortably won, though only when the dog stopped to urinate against a tree. I’m a very competitive person. The win boosted my confidence, and I faced off against a passing Volkswagen Golf. I went ahead by a neck when the Golf got stuck in traffic, but it caught up and it was nip and tuck for a long while. Suddenly I realised that my good lady wife was inside and had been shouting at me all the way up the high street. She wondered if I wanted a lift. I hitched a ride home in style.

DAY THREE
Was jogging past a group of students when I was suddenly distracted by a woman’s décolletage. It really was a marvellous décolletage, and it made me wobble off the pavement into a garden – where I was felled by a gorse bush. Who has gorse bushes in Croydon? I was knocked out (both by the impact, and the pleasant surprise of seeing a gorse bush out of season in south London). When I came to, the décolletage was looming over me. ‘Are you okay?’ came a voice. I don’t remember all of what happened after that, but I don’t think I’m welcome in that postcode again.

DAY FOUR
Fed up of the ‘brand bullying’ I get for my Cica trainers. What’s wrong with Cica? Quite a lot, judging from the snotty looks they attract when I’m running through the leafier estates. Yes, their stock has fallen somewhat over the last fifteen years or so, but Cica still manufacture a fantastic pair of running shoes (although they specialise in shoes for children). My wife says I owe a duty of care to my knees and should invest in proper trainers. She even claimed that Cica wasn’t a brand but a division of Clark’s UK PLC. She also used the word ‘schlock.’ I lost my temper and said some things I shouldn’t. She was unbowed and then threw the trainers at me. That’s it. After a brief conference we agreed to part company for good.

DAY FIVE
A heavy ground frost this morning but it had gone by lunchtime so I began my jog at 2.34pm (have resolved to make these entries more detailed). Today’s run was very arduous and long. I was truly exhausted when I got home, but was surprised to see that the clock read only 2.43pm – a jog of eight minutes, if you subtract the minute when I stopped whilst suffering a bad stitch (that was the first minute). I was sure that I had run for longer than that – hours, maybe even days. I joked to my good lady wife that I must have crossed the international date line. She met my witticism with a look of concentrated disgust. She was angry I was still here – had I forgotten our argument yesterday? In truth I had. I consulted this diary which indeed confirmed her side of the story. Have resolved to stop this diary.

DAY SIX
This is my last entry. I have terminated my jogging – the BBC have upped my appearance fee offer for My Man Boobs and Me and a contract has been agreed. The programme goes out the day of the London Marathon.

DAY SEVEN
… And on the seventh day he rested (had to shoehorn that in there – I do admire the Bible).