About this time last year, I spotted an ad that thrilled me.
The most beautiful man in the world, David Essex, was staging a ‘farewell tour’ in autumn 2024. No luck coming to Aberdeen, but he was set for Glasgow, on September 20.
I haven’t the foggiest about booking tickets for concerts, so I ordered my loon to do the bizz. He got two for row B, even buying them for me as my Christmas present. I was ower the moon. Just needed to find a friend to come with me.
The last time I’d seen my hero was in the Music Hall in 2003 with my cousin’s wife, also a fan. However, she was already booked for Spain, so I ended up with a fair old phone aboot.
Naebody was keen to so much as cross the road to see him, let alone offski to Glesga.
Finally, my bosom buddy came to my aid. She disnae particularly like him but quite funcied the jaunt.
I started coontin’ the weeks until it was time for me to be reunited with the gorgeous man. Would he still have that cheeky smile? The sexy eyes? The velvet voice?
Then my mate delivered the heart-breaking news: “My neighbour says she heard him singing somewhere recently and he canna sing for toffee ony mair.” Fit a sickener. Spik aboot doon-in-the-dumps.
David Essex has still got it even at 77
Scroll on to the taxi to the bus station, when the driver asked where I was off to, tell the truth I felt a bittie embarrassed revealing I was a David Essex groupie.
Sez he: “Foo al’ is he noo?” Losh did I feel a gype, muttering: “He’s 77,” adding: “I’m hoping he’s still got a half-decent voice .” But my cabbie was an optimist: “Tom Jones is 84 and sounding better than ever.” Cheers, pal.
So, last Friday two 76-year-olds got dolled up and hobbled off to the Concert Hall to be entertained by a 77-year-old that one ancient really wisnae a’ that fussed aboot.
Definitely walking-sticks a-go-go when we reached the bar. Wifies mainly 50-and very-plus, all in various stages of glamour, fitness and bravely challenging decrepitude. Mony o’ them happily knocking back shots before the main attraction, squeezing into their newly bought black 2024 Tour T-shirts and stringing their lanyards roon their wrinklie necks. And quite right too. Go girls!
When you get to oor age, if you can get to something like that, make the best of it. Meanwhile others were obviously ca’in’ canny wi’ the drink, lest their bladders didnae get them past his second song.
Into the auditorium and deep joy. Oor seats slap-bang in front of the mic. So close, if I broke wind in excitement, he’d have heard it. My hairtie fair thumpin’ when he appeared. And guess fit? Still as gorgeous as ever. A silver-haired Adonis. Even better, his voice was fantastic.
Mo in love a’ ower again. Now dinna laugh, but I’ll sweer he looked me straight in the eye several, sexy times. (Maybe that’s because I kept blaain’ kisses.)
Even my pal, who ended up on her feet boppin’ at the end, declared he was superb and loved the show. Only a slight quibble. From the waist up he was smart and trendy; dark waistcoat ower white shirt. But his bottom-half was a sotter. Saggy, baggy, ancient-lookin’ denim breeks – like the kind you’d wear to do the gardening, and clarty beets to match.
My glam guy – the ultimate Doric orra loon! The next day at the bus station, we met a woman in her 50s who’d also been to see him. When I asked how she’d enjoyed it, here’s her: ”It was great. But he looked so old.” I wisnae ha’in that guff, and barked back: “Well he is 77!”
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
Conversation