ZANG TUMMM TUMB ARTICLES “the first draft of history”

As I sit down, Nik Kershaw and his wife scurry past, pursued by photographers, looking for their table. A minute later, Sting and Trudi Styler emerge from the opposite direction, looking equally lost. Sting’s new haircut and dinner suit give him a gaunt and glamorous look; Trudi looks very pregnant. Oooh! There’s Kim Wilde and her father.

Discontent is seething in the press tables where I’m sitting. All us poor hacks are up in the balcony above the main hall where all the important guests are dining. The man from The Star and the man from the London Evening Standard keeping trotting off to see who’s here. I tuck into the smoked salmon, followed by vegetable soup — or Creme de Legumes, as it says on the menu — duck, profiteroles and bottles of wine, chilled in buckets of ice. All quite acceptable, really, even if it is a bit like “punk never happened”.

One photographer at my table asks another if he’s going to hang round in the foyer to photograph Wham! when they arrive.

“Oh God, no!” he replies. “They always look the same.”

Lesley Ann Jones flits from table to table, one minute chatting to the man from The Sun, the next marching past with Holly Johnson’s German friend, Wolfgang.

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After the meal, we get speeches from officials of the British Phonographic Industry who’ve organised the event, saying things like “One in every four records sold anywhere has a British connection” (which is quite impressive when you think about it).

Upstairs, the speeches are immediately forgotten when an enormous entourage of photographers, hangers-on and heavies mill across the floor. And in their centre is… PRINCE! Tiny enough to make Nik Kershaw look tall, an expression somewhere between sulkiness and embarrassment on his face, he disappears into a side door, followed by a ripple of applause.

A few minutes later, Mike Smith takes up his position in front of television cameras just a few yards in front of me and the live TV transmission of the awards commences.

You probably saw it all on TV anyway — in fact you probably saw and heard more than me, because in the Great Hall it was often difficult to hear what was going on over the constant buzz of conversation. Holly Johnson’s remark about having had “sex on the

telephone” with Prince came over loud and clear but Prince’s mumbled thank-you’s were just about inaudible.

From where I’m standing I have a perfect view of Elaine Paige who applauds Sade most enthusiastically. Until he accepts his second award — after which he leaves — Prince and his two bodyguards sit at the same table as Strawberry Switchblade. “What did you talk to me about?” I ask them.

“We were struck dumb,” confesses Jill. Apparently there was no conversation whatsoever.

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Once the broadcast is over, a lot of people start to leave, although celebrations continue ‘til one. David Cassidy marches out, not quite as tanned as George Michael who’s almost orange. He looks very well, actually, and while departing amid the usual gaggle of photographers, stops and says ‘Hello’ to me, before having his pic taken with Mark O’Toole.

The Frankie lads are looking pretty “bladdered”, as you’d expect, discussing where to go on to. They settle on the Embassy club where two of Mark’s brothers are playing in a group called Phantasee. Holly is wandering round, very relaxed: “Ello, lar,” he says, “I’m pissed.”

And he’s not the only one. Strawberry Switchblade, their manager and me, set off to find Bronski Beat’s dressing-room but somehow end up in the kitchens. Continue »