Recently, Spencer, Proudlock and I did a personal appearance at a night club. I didn’t have much previous PA experience, but from what I’d heard, it involved turning up at a swanky club, enjoying some free drinks and chatting to a few people who might want their pictures taken with us.
However, there was one element that hadn’t been mentioned: the groupies. And it became clear as soon as we arrived why it is mostly the Made in Chelsea guys who get asked to do PAs.
The majority of the clubbers were female, dressed up in their fiercest (hello knicker-exposing dresses and trowel-applied make-up) and ready to fight for their men. There were two particularly ambitious girls who charged over, both beelining for a rather startled Spencer.
In fact, one of them — she was almost seven foot tall — knocked me over in her hurry to handle him.
“You can’t even imagine all the things I’d do to you,” she purred in his ear, as she proceeded to grope him — before security eventually dragged them away. They then gyrated to the music at the other side of the room, shooting “come hither” glances in the guys’ direction.
As I gawked back at these extraordinary creatures, I wondered: whatever happened to the traditional rock ’n’ roll groupie?
A few months ago I was backstage at a Tiësto concert in New York and The Kooks were there. Along with a large number of female fans. One of them was wearing a leather dress that barely covered her crotch and was bending over to aim her (knickerless) derrière in the direction of just about anyone rich and famous.
But it’s not groupies I have a problem with, just this modern incarnation of them. What happened to the Pennie Lanes of the world? Old-school tag-a-longs who were more muse than musical porn star?
I imagine the groupies of the Seventies to have been these mesmerisingly cool women, like little rock stars themselves. They loved the bands — often literally — but they loved the music more. Maybe I’m romanticising but it strikes me that they were part of a travelling collective, a rolling good time where the sexual aspect of groupie-ing didn’t seem so tragically desperate.
As we left the club, the two same pushy girls were waiting at the door, flashing their cameras along with their underwear. I decided then not to do any more PAs. At least until the standard of hanger-on improves.
