Terry – My Blind Date With Cilla

My bland date with Cilla

I was reading in the press about Paul O’Grady on holiday in Paris with his best pal, Cilla Black. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when those two hit the town …

Apparently they’re thick as thieves and get on so well because they share the same outrageous sense of humour.

People often ask me, who’s the nastiest celeb you’ve ever met? Well, I wouldn’t call her ‘nasty’ as such but I remember Cilla being downright dismissive when I met her as an eager teenager. I hope I caught her on an off-day, and that she’s not really like that.

She can’t be – Paul O’Grady is a lovely bloke who doesn’t see himself as a big star and he wouldn’t be friends with a vacuous prima donna.

Anyway, when I was a kid I absolutely loved Cilla Black, I couldn’t get enough of her. I loved Surprise Surprise! and when she did a Galaxy chocolate advert I remember putting the TV on all the time, on the off-chance that I would see my favourite commercial!

I just thought she was fabulous. So I was delighted to meet her when she did a singing show at a theatre in Dewsbury, when I was about 15. Regular readers will know I spent my formative years chasing A-listers around with a tiny tape recorder, doing interviews with them for nothing other than my own amusement.

Most were happy to be interviewed – generally about their favourite colour, or latest record – and were entertained by the sight of this cheeky Yorkshire kid charming and blagging his way into their dressing rooms.

But not Cilla. She did the interview, swiftly and coldly, and made it pretty clear she wanted to be alone to get ready for her gig. Her husband Bob, who of course has since passed away, stayed firmly in the background – you could tell who wore the trousers. I was gutted.

I hope Cilla was just having a bad day, but I’ve never risked a re-run – any time I’ve had an opportunity to introduce myself, I haven’t, which isn’t like me at all. I just don’t want to believe that Cilla is really an ice queen!

Shut up, Robbie

Robbie Williams has been moaning on again that he’s giving up music to go ‘hunting aliens’. It would be more of a story if he said he WASN’T giving up music. I like his style and his stuff but I’m sick of him acting all lonely and depressed, and ‘poor me!’, like he’s some sort of victim.

He’s got success, money, adoration, talent … I think he’s just bored. He lives in Hollywood, why doesn’t he take up acting? That might distract him from his constant introspection.

Marry in haste, repent at Heather

Poor Paul McCartney, I bet he’ll never trust anyone again. Usually hard-nosed, determined women in the public eye split opinion but absolutely everyone I know is united in having no sympathy at all for Lady Mucca who’s come across as desperately unappealing in all the divorce hoo-ha.

Having said that, she did Paul’s stern-looking lawyer, Fiona Shackleton, a fashion favour by tipping that water over her in court. Fiona, nicknamed the Steel Magnolia because of her tough reputation, went into court with a heavily coiffeured Camilla-style hairstyle and emerged with a sexily slicked-back Diana do, post-drenching.

Let’s scoot

My civil partner Michael bought me a 50cc scooter for my birthday, for use at our home in Tangier, Morocco. I celebrated with a lot of riding about in the mountains. Scooters are great in North Africa where it’s nice and warm but you’d never catch me on one in the UK, I’ll stick to my X5, thanks.

It did bring back memories, however, of my first ever mode of transport, a burnt orange colour Suzuki F250 scooter, my cheap and cheerful wheels bought with £45 – two weeks’ wages from the pickle factory where I worked when I was 17. I loved that scooter, and the independence it brought me. Ahh!