Celebrities I have nearly killed
No famous people were harmed in the making of these embarrassing stories
I know I’ve mentioned a few times on my Substack page that I’m launching podcast and some of you may have decided that I was lying about the whole thing, but behold: It’s here!
Well, nearly. Here’s a teaser.
Fame with Jo Elvin will launch on December 28. I get to talk to some really interesting people about what it’s really like to wrestle with the complex emotions that are the inescapable part of the celebrity deal. Guests include Jameela Jamil, Amy Schumer, Amanda de Cadenet, Tracy Ann Oberman and so many more.
I’ve been working on this since February this year, so it really has been a labour of love. And tenacity. Because if you want to get under the skin of how it really feels to be famous, you need to talk to famous people. And that takes some cajoling and patiently waiting to get into people’s diaries.
Every episode also features a little thing that producer Amanda Redman and I have tagged ‘fame fails’ - ie the times we have encountered famous people and it was embarrassing. So today’s column here is a rundown of some of my own personal fame fails that I think you might enjoy. My daughter, who has recently become obsessed with fashion and all its political intricacies, particularly enjoyed this story about Anna Wintour.
ANNA WINTOUR
I just checked, it was March 6, 2004. I was in Paris, and had a front row seat for Tom Ford’s last show as creative director of Yves Saint Laurent. The venue was the Musee D’Orsay. When it came time to leave the show, it was night, and the route out was an unlit series of cobblestoned paths, that the notorious, aesthetically controlling Ford had also had blanketed in black carpets.
In that crowd of, I’d guess about 1,500 people, I found myself walking out directly behind Anna Wintour and famed photographer Mario Testino. They were deep in conversation for the five to 10 minute walk back out onto the street. I didn’t notice, in the dark, walking on all the black-clad cobblestones, that actually the flat ground was now giving way to a couple of descending steps. I found myself suddenly stumbling, falling and my arms lunged out reflexively. Somehow, some way, in my vertiginous YSL heels, my ankles bent unnaturally but did not quite snap. But the real miracle was this: my arms had reached out to balance myself and break my fall and I swear to you, missed slapping Anna Wintour in the back by a millimetre. I was that close to pushing her to the ground as part of my spectacular fall. I don’t think my career could have survived smashing Anna Wintour’s knees on Parisian cobblestones.
I truly believe there was an angel on duty for me that night.
GIORGIO ARMANI
More fashion calamity from me. Mr Armani opened a lavish new store on London’s New Bond Street. He was also in those days, one of the most supportive advertisers for fashion magazines and as such, if Mr Armani was opening so much as an envelope and required me to be there to witness it, even death wouldn’t have been an acceptable excuse for swerving. So, to New Bond Street I went
The store is incredible and, on its grand opening, lavish beyond belief. Several storeys, a gorgeous courtyard garden, many expensive outfits.
To my great surprise, Giorgio Armani himself was greeting guests upon arrival. I didn’t think he would trouble himself with something as small as a store opening, so clearly this was a huge deal for the whole company, and I made the right choice in being present and correct.
The British head of Armani PR greeted me and said, ‘Come and say hello to Mr Armani!’ Of course, of course.
He extended his hand for shaking. Or so I thought. To my great shock and surprise, he pulled me in for a hug. I need to emphasise: I was so unprepared for this, and the white porcelain tiles on the floor of this gleaming new store were so shiny and new and polished that I stumbled. I slipped. With my hand still gripped by Giorgio Armani’s, I FELL ONTO GIORGIO ARMANI. And we did this awful, awkward, weird sort of dancing thing where we both nearly fell over. If we’d fallen, he’d have cracked his skull.
Somehow we didn’t. So that’s Anna Wintour and now Giorgio Armani who I’ve nearly killed with my clumsiness.
RALPH LAUREN
Oh hell yes, there’s more.
No one nearly died in this incident. Unless you count me. Of embarrassment.
I think it was about 2009. I was at Ralph Lauren’s runway show in New York and I was sitting next to my friend Marie O’Riordan who was the editor of Marie Claire magazine. It was a beautiful show. ( I was always a sucker for a Ralph moment. So polished. So classic. So impeccably done, every time).
As is the custom at these things, after the models have done their last parade and are leaving the runway, the designer comes out to take a bow and enjoy some rapturous applause. Some of them peek out for a nano second and run behind the curtain again, like Miuccia Prada. Ralph was very much in the more confident camp. He took his time to stroll down the catwalk. I think he actually had one hand casually planted in a front pocket of his artfully battered jeans as he strolled its 50 metre length. Marie and I were at the very end of it.
As he drew closer, something uncomfortable started to happen. People started standing up and hugging and kissing him and he drank it all in. But then… as he drew closer to me and Marie, he started looking at me. He was walking towards me. Arms outstretched. I don’t know Ralph Lauren. I still don’t. ‘Why is he looking at me?’ I was thinking, panicking inside. I wondered if he thought I was someone else. Should I stand? I don’t know him. I did not know what to do. And honestly, I was starting to stand up when the woman on the other side of me, who wasn’t Marie, stood up. And they hugged. Oh. it’s HER he knows. Marie turned to me and said, “God, I thought he wanted you to get up and kiss him for a second there.’ IMAGINE IF I’D GOT UP. OH MY GOD.
DEBBIE HARRY
You all know I edited Glamour magazine for a long time. During that time, we had a once a year huge event called the Glamour Women of the Year Awards. Something I think even people in my own office often didn’t appreciate was the painstaking, long-game work that went into filling that evening with celebrities. And so, one cold November before the following June date of the Awards, I was given the opportunity to ‘sell’ the awards to Blondie legend, Debbie Harry. Backstage, after her show in Hammersmith I was instructed to just stand outside her dressing room and wait for her to be ready to receive me. Fair enough. She’d just delivered a killer set - and she really was amazing. Thing is, I was desperate to pee. I knew I’d be waiting a while. So I found a loo backstage and went about my business. All fine. Until I tried to leave the loo. The door handle broke off and fell out in my hand. I stood there, staring at the door handle for a good 30 seconds. The door would not open. I banged on it a few times to try and get some attention. Nothing. I texted Debbie’s PR, Alan, who had brought me backstage. No response.
A few minutes later though, Alan and actual Debbie Harry were on the other side of the loo trying to prise the door open. And that is when I met Debbie Harry. She rescued me from a faulty toilet cubicle.
I believe scheduling conflicts - and not this incident, no, not at all - were the reason she did not attend the Glamour Women of the Year Awards.
I have many more stories about embarrassing interactions with famous people. But I bet you do too. Please share them with me and you might hear them discussed on a future episode of the podcast Fame with Jo Elvin. You can always use the hashtag famefails on Twitter or Instagram too, I’ll be looking out for it.
Tell me your fame fails here. Go on, go on, go on. It’s just us…..
Celebrities I have nearly killed
Once I got incredibly drunk in New York whilst on holiday with my best friend (he lives in London, I in Sydney, so it was quite the reunion). Anyway, we were both quite jet-lagged, and had been on the Sex and the City bus tour all day, drinking cosmos, as you do. This was followed by manhattans from 4pm with our older, richer friend who'd shouted this lavish and abundant cocktail hour (we were on a budget so had made the most of that). A few hours later we made it to Soho, already incredibly drunk, and went to Alan Cumming's "Club Cumming". It was fabulous and Alan himself was working the bar that night. It turned out was Ricki Lake's (remember her?) 50th birthday there that night as well, more celebs, and we were suddenly in the mix at her party. Anyway, the night went on, we kept on with cocktails despite being white wine drinkers, and in the end I face planted in front of Ricki and then threw up in front of Alan. My last memory of that evening was throwing up (for about the fifth time) out a cab window over Brooklyn bridge. I was so hungover the next day that I missed going to the MoMA. The shame of it still haunts me and I haven't touched bourbon, nor been nearly as pissed, since!
I find it pleasing that your producer has the same name as a famous actor. Very meta.