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I Last Saw Maj…
Melba Most (AKA Melvyn Corns), drag queen extraordinaire:
Not for, ooh, ages. Years. That’s showbiz for you. I’m on tour so much these days, it’s hard to synchronise diaries.
We’re in touch, though – Christmas cards and the like. And she did go and visit my mother when she had her hip replaced, which I’ve always very much appreciated. She always loved Mom, did Maj; used to say she was, among other things, ‘the best cook in the entire world.’
It must be said that back in the day Majella was no Nigella. I can still remember winter nights when I wore my coat and three jumpers because the kitchen window had been thrown open to purge the flat of putrid smoke. I mean, how can you burn a Pot Noodle?
How far we’ve both come since those days.
I have joyous memories of that microscopic flat in Brum city centre, though. Testing each other on our lines; swapping frocks.
Ah, I miss Maj. I’m itching for a natter with her right now. In fact, where’s my address book?
Linda Dyson, top comedian and actress:
It was over twenty years ago, sadly at the funeral of a mutual dear friend of ours.
We didn’t speak much on that occasion. Pity. Back in the proverbial day, before fame and all that jazz beckoned, we were great mates. Flatmates, in fact; along with Mel and Nelson.
There are things I don’t think she will ever forgive me for. As I say, such a criminal pity. Things she said at the time hurt far more than any heckler ever could, or even that critic who called me ‘a Zippy from Rainbow lookalike and thief of Jo Brand’s jokes.’
Gareth Rushcliff, lead singer with seminal 80s group Glinda Spitfire:
I saw Majella Bracebridge (though she no longer calls herself that, it seems) two days ago, in fact, on Come Dine with Me. Sadly not the celebrity version, but the one featuring civilians – members of the public – cooking for and entertaining each other.
I can’t quite believe I’ve just admitted to watching that. I’ll put it down to tour-bus boredom. Along with seven other bands, we’ve hit the oft-trodden comeback trail. Again. In fact our comeback has lasted longer than our original chart career, but never mind. As long as our ageing groupies continue to wet their knickers over us, we’ll keep chugging out the old hits. This particular enterprise is called the Now That’s What I Call a Pension tour.
Anyway, Come Dine with Me came from Wolverhampton that day, which as a Midlands boy raised a faint glimmer of interest.
It was halfway through the black pudding and goats cheese starter that one of the contestants, a gay insurance clerk called Wayne who apparently wears feather boas and enjoys fire-eating in his spare time, squawked at the hostess, ‘Hey, weren’t you the girl from that advert?’
The pretty bird blushed behind her wine glass and admitted that yes, she was briefly known in the 80s for an ad, one which gave rise to a short-lived catchphrase. Cue squealing repetition around the table of said catchphrase, in the manner it would once have echoed through school playgrounds and pubs.
The last time I experienced a jolt like that was an early gig at the Old Hill Plaza when the ancient lift that was lugging the four of us plus instruments ground to a juddering halt.
‘How’s it going, geezer?’ Joe, our drummer, joined me, cracking open his fourth beer of the day (it was quarter-to-six) and handing me one. I numbly took it, still riveted to the TV. He vaulted into the leather seat, stretching out his stocky little legs. ‘Hang on, ain’t she that wench you were knocking off years ago?’ Political correctness, it is fair to say, has bypassed Joe. He waved his hand in front of my spacey eyes. ‘Earth to Gaz. That blond sort there, next to the fat poof.’
‘I know which one she is!’
‘Woo, touchy!
I took a deep breath, cursing my telltale loss of restraint. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘Not like you to get mushy over an ex. Swanky kitchen she’s got there. Didn’t you say she used to burn Pot Noodles?’
‘That’s right.’ I took a wobbly gulp from my beer can. A different brand to the one she used to advertise.
Joe chuckled. Even when we were young, a Record Mirror interviewer described him as possessing ‘guttural tones.’ These days he sounds like a Brummie Arthur Mullard. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh? I tell you what, though,’ he glanced around to check we were not overheard by our backing singer/dancer, ‘she’s aged a bit better than bloody Romy. She’s looking as rough as mustard these days – bloody hell! Rotunda by name and nature.’
The years certainly had been kinder to Majella than to Romy Rotunda, my intermittent lover. And, for that matter, my wife Katy (Katy is wife number three, if you’re keeping count).
Oh wow. Those huge, vivacious blue eyes, the arch grin, as she laughed while her guests shared memories of the advert that had brought brief fame to the artiste formerly known as Majella Bracebridge. She’s apparently doing a very different job these days, though.
I found myself compulsively – hypocritically – scrutinising for a wedding ring. Were I watching on DVD, I’m ashamed to say my finger would have been hovering over the pause button. Aarrggh, why did she have to hold her wine glass with her right hand?
‘I’m amazed you all remember that,’ she said with modest but obvious delight. She sounded the same too: the Brummie inflection, refined by drama school.
Oh, I remember, Maj. I remember.
