Kevin Clooney

Nice to see Kate Winslet nominated for an Oscar and eleven Baftas and an Olymypic gold medal and what have you for her latest movie The Readers.

I haven’t seen it but I’ve heard it’s supposed to be okay - it’s about the Nazis or something. She’s always in these kinds of films is our Kate, a bit like Woody Allen who is always in films about Nazis and Jews and that.

I was in a restaurant in Newark a few years ago when Kate came in with her husband at the time, Jim Treacleton or something I think his name was. She seemed pleasant enough, but he had a face like a smacked arse. I reckon they had been arguing or something; you can see why she dumped him for rich movie director Sam Mendes, who I think is not exactly a Jew, but a bit Jew-ish.

Treacleton was drinking his white wine with a straw as I recall and, to me, he looked a bit gay.

I worked for singer Will Young last year and he was doing the same thing backstage after the show: drinking with a straw. (Don’t quote me on this, but I think it was pink Champagne - though it could just as easily have been fizzy Ribena.)

He looked a bit gay, too.

As you can probably tell, I’m new to this blogging lark. But I’m really enjoying it!

I’ve been searching Google for info that might help me progress, help me make a little money even.

Found this: The Inner Circle. Looks good.

I reckon I might give it a go. The Inner Circle was the name of my first band when I was still at school. We used to play Elvis Costello and Nick Lowe covers. Good omen, that.

Filthy Rik is in the US at the moment and he has been telling me about some stuff he’s been hearing over there.

He reckons Irish rockers U2 will not be using any of the material they recorded with Rick Rubin for their much-awaited new record No Lion On The Horizon, instead opting for the guidance of long-term collaborator and usual producer Brian Eno.

Rik and I have both worked with U2 a few times and neither of us is surprised to hear that they have been messing people about. They’re always doing it, in the studio and especially on the road.

Larry Mullen - the drummer - is the worst. He spends ages soundchecking his kit then keeps complaining that he can’t hear his drums properly in the monitors. I reckon he’s deaf. Most drummers are. And thick.

I had a few days off over the weekend and managed to kick back a bit with my Donna.

We went to see Quantum of Solace, the new James Bond movie last night. It was pretty good; I never liked the gadget-fest that Bond movies had become so it made a refreshing change to see the franchise get back to basics with plenty of realistic action and a clever script. I reckon Daniel Craig is pretty good, too. He’s nearly taken over from Sean Connery as my favourite bond - nearly, but not quite.

On Friday night we watched Dead Set on TV. It was rather good - about zombies taking over the Big Brother house somewhere in England. The final shot of zombies wandering around aimlessly watching other zombies doing the same thing on television was a pertinent obsveration about the state of programming on British TV and on consumerism in general. Top marks to Charlie Brooker the writer. Not bad, I reckon.

It made me think about how I’m always daydreaming about zombies and what I would do if we were being overrun by them - you know, in an end-of-the-world sort of scenario. Weird, that, I reckon.

The rest of the weekend’s television was crap.

I’ve never like either of them, Jonathan Ross or Russell Brand. Ross has been suspended and Brand has resigned. I reckon the BBC should have sacked them both days ago; in fact, they should never have been employed in the first place.

Both men are ignorant, crude, offensive and boorish. The fact that they were paid something like a billion pounds per year is obscene. Neither are even slightly funny - although both seem to think that they are. Ridiculous, more like.

If the BBC is fined, I’d hate to think the money will be coming out of the revenue it receives from overcharging people like me and you for the licences we are obliged to buy every year.

My Donna told me that the reason Brand has all that hair is to hide his head which is quite pointed. So much so, in fact, that he has to have it blessed every three days by an Anglican bishop. A***hole.

Fingers crossed, next to go: Gordon Ramsey and Anne Robinson.

My Donna has just shown me an article in one of her girly magazines about Madonna taking time out and resting in New York with her best friend Gwyneth Paltrow; apparently, the stress of the past month is taking its toll on the queen of pop what with her hectic touring schedule and her divorce from Guy Ritchie and everything.

I’ve met Gwyneth Paltrow a few times when I’ve been working for miserable guitar band Coldplay. The band’s frontman and Paltrow’s paramour Chris Martin is a nice enough chap but his American wife always seemed a bit ignorant and rude to me. Could be because I’m just a lowly roadie and not a glamorous singer in an internationally successful rock band - who knows?

Once, my Donna was chatting to Paltrow backstage, showing her the new nails she’d just had done and Gwyneth didn’t show even the slightest interest; my Donna was really offended. ‘She only wanted to talk about Madonna,’ she told me afterwards, ‘She just wasn’t bothered about my nails - just kept going on and on about her famous friend.’

I took my Donna out for a slap-up curry in my favourite Indian restaurant in Stepney after the show. That cheered her up no end.

Snake, one of my roadie mates, who keeps snakes – he’s mad about them - was taking the Michael out of me the other day because of Ozzy, my little pussycat. He reckons blokes in the music business who like cats lean towards the lavender. I soon put him straight on that one.

In case you’re wondering, Ozzy my blue Persian is named after Ozzy Osbourne. Natch. Here’s a picture of my Donna with Ozzy taken about twelve years ago when he was a kitten.

Aren’t  a lucky roadie? Two kittens!

I’ve worked with the Oz loads of times, I did a 5-month North American tour with him a few years ago and I can tell you he’s a thoroughly nice bloke. He never knew what day it was, though, and you could never tell what he was saying.

A bit weird when it comes to lunchtime, as well: the caterers on the tour had to do him his bat heads. He eats loads of the horrible little things. On that tour, if I remember correctly, there were gallons of Guinness and beer backstage for the crew but Ozzy only drank brandy and Ribena. Guinness sometimes, but brandy and Ribena mostly. Brandy and Ribena and cheese and onion sandwiches.

And bat heads.

My best mate and fellow professional roadie Filthy Rik has just been telling me about his upcoming gigs with the Kaiser Chiefs in the UK in October.

I’m really envious because I like the band, and having worked with them before, I know they pay really well - better than bloody Coldplay, anyway, who are crap.

I like the Kaisers’ new single Never Miss The Beat which reminds me of Bill Nelson and Be-Bop Deluxe for some reason. I reckon they’d sell a lot more records though if the singer stopped dressing up as a schoolboy. Weird he is, that one. He’s from Yorkshire so that explains a lot.

Filthy Rik often imbibes too much when he’s doing indie band gigs - he gets too excited, bless him - so I’m hoping he’ll get sacked and I can step in and deputise.

Deputy Kev. I like the sound of that.

I reckon pop stars are fickle creatures.

Take Amy Winehouse again, and take Mark Ronson. (Again.)

The pair famously fell out big-time over their collaboration on the new Bond theme but are now back in the studio working on a tribute to legendary producer Quincy Jones. Apparently, they are the best of friends again! Fickle.

My Donna reckons loads of famous people are like that: cynical - especially when money is concerned - but I reckon it’s singers who are the worst. And producers.

I reckon Justin Timberlake ought to give Britney another chance.

By re-associating himself with his ex he would give his faltering showbiz career a boost. He might be a good little mover on stage, but let’s face it: he’s not the world’s best singer, is he. He’s crap, basically.

I’ve worked on his shows twice in the past and I can’t remember what they sounded like; I was smashed out of my head on both occasions - you have to be in this job.

I do remember that on one - in Vegas, if I remember correctly (I love Las Vegas; they could improve it massively, though, if they had a few dartboards in some of the bars and casinos) – I was doing stage security and I kept frightening the pretty ladies at the front because my jeans kept falling down all night – probably due to my enormous bunch of keys that are permanently attached to my waistband. I need to sort them out a bit, actually.

I have no idea what most of them are for, but you have to have them there – it’s part of the Roadie Code.