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.

Whew! That was a busy few days. First the Futureheads gigs, and then I got called last minute to do some work for ITV at one of the X Factor shows.

The Futureheads concerts were hard work - not because of the equipment or anything, but because of the band. I’ve already told you about the drummer but this time the guitarist was being an idiot, too. First off, he looks stupid: his trousers are too tight, same for all guitarists. (This doesn’t apply to jazz, but then again, what does?) Second, he tried to get off with my Donna!

Backstage after the soundcheck, he propositioned her to come back to the hotel with him and . . . well I’m not sure - try on some trousers together, probably. She told me, and I had to have a serious man-to-man word with him. But then he only went and offered me money for her, didn’t he! You know, like that film The Indecent Proposition. I nearly punched him but I would have been thrown off the crew. I wouldn’t have hit him, anyway; the Roadie Code forbids us hitting the musicians, though it’s hard not too at times.

On a lighter note, the X Factor gig was a hoot. Just standidng around backstage, mostly. I had to push Simon Cowell round for an hour in his wheelchair and then I got to spend a few minutes chatting to Dannii Minogue in her dressing room.

She still loves me. She told me she’s splitting up with her boyfriend at Christmas - you heard it here first. Probably so she can get with me, I reckon.

Don’t tell my Donna I said any of that.

Filthy Rik (short for Erik - he’s from Sweden, though I would never hold this against him) was playing me some tracks from the new Guns and Roses album Chinese Democracy yesterday. It was okay - not as bad as I expected it would be. And I did expect it to be bad.

It was better than their previous albums simply because it took so long to produce, effectively reducing their overall output considerably. This is a good thing. At least they sound like they were trying to be a bit less heavy metal on this one. While most tracks on it feature the group’s trademark guitar bombast, others include piano, orchestrations and flamenco influences.

Filthy Rik and I were both on tour in North America with Guns and Roses years and years ago, when I was still at the stinking bottom of the roadie pile, learning my trade, as it were. Those days were a good experience and I learned a lot of things about the excesses of crap rock bands and about life in general.

I was surprised to learn one thing, though; I wandered into Slash’s dressing room one night to find him attaching big, red rubber lips to his face. That’s right, Slash wears false lips. always has done, apparently. They help him hold his cigarettes in place while he’s playing those interminably long tuneless solos.

Yep, rock fans, you heard it here first: Slash has false lips.

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.

One of my showbiz sources (Donna) tells me that Paris Hilton is in the UK at the moment to promote her new TV show. Apparently, ITV2 has signed Hilton up to appear in a new UK-produced show in which she will attempt to find a British best friend.

I’d be her friend, no worries. Donna reckons she has read somewhere that Paris loves cats - well she could bring her pussy to come and play with mine; I’ve got a lovely blue Persian at home called Ozzy and he really misses me when I’m away working.

I’m sure my Ozzy would love to play with Paris’s little pussy.

Actually, I’d quite fancy Paris Hilton if she wasn’t so, well . . . stupid.

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.

One of my roadie mates was chatting to Graham Coxon recently and found out that the bespectacled Blur guitarist is to feature on the Pete Doherty solo album that has been in the works for over a year now.

‘I really like his songs,’ Coxon apparently said, ‘but he does smell. In fact, he really stinks.’ Told you!

I like Graham Coxon, he’s quite a good mate. I helped him choose his new glasses in Carnaby Street last year. I’ve worked with Blur a few times and I think they’re okay. That Damon Allbran is a bit stuck up, though.

Coxon’s solo single was crap. Sounded like the Skids to me. The Skids on methadone.

The Skids were amazing, one of my fave all time bands and absolutely top blokes, too. Stuart Adamson RIP. Sadly missed guitar genius.

Hi, pop pickers! I bumped into Amy Winehouse the other day, nice girl, looked a bit rough as usual, though – probably had a ‘busy’ night. She’s got some dates coming up and was asking me if I was going to be on the crew. ‘You’re the best,’ she told me. I didn’t see any reason to argue with her.

Her mobile rang and she yelled into it, ‘No! Go away, clown!’
I asked her if she was being hounded by the press again but she told me no; said it was that ‘smelly Pete Doherty tw*t.’

Apparently he really fancies her and keeps ringing her up for a date. (That’s Pete on the left). What a loser.

The Libertines were a bloody good band though. I heard on the grapevine that a reunion is on the cards. You heard it here first! I’ll keep you posted on that one.

Anyway, cheerio for now.

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.