I was taken in by vile Glitter, but was never his victim. So why do I feel pure terror now he’s being freed?
Iam sometimes described as “one of life’s ball-breakers”. I suffer no fools. I have worked flat out for more than 35 years; broken the glass ceiling to make a name in a man’s world.
I have written and published books about some of entertainment’s biggest names. I tackle TV interviews with ease, and film regularly for documentaries.
I am also the survivor of a crippling divorce during which I lost most of what I’d ever earned. I have raised three exceptional children single-handedly.
I know about people. I know who my friends are. Not a lot scares me.
But this does: the thought of Gary Glitter soon walking free from HMP The Verne, a Dorset jail, after serving half of his sentence for the sexual abuse of several children.
Why? Was I one of the vile pervert’s victims? Until this week, I would have insisted not. I would have assured you that I was one of the lucky ones.
Because even though I befriended him, grew fond of him and spent an inordinate amount of time alone with him, I was never subjected to violation or abuse. Is that true?
It began to dawn on me that he could soon be stalking the streets of London, perhaps even living in his cluttered old Baker Street penthouse flat.
As it occurred to me that he might start frequenting the old haunts and we could find ourselves seated beside one another, I found myself growing anxious.
I have never been prone to stress or depression. I am not one to dwell on the past, nor to waste time fearing the future. But lately, I am consumed by feelings of guilt.
My recent tendency to rush frequently to the bathroom, my clinical psychotherapist friend tells me, represents the urge to purge my body and consequently my mind of sinister feelings and unwelcome memories.
This is all due to the Leader of the Gang’s imminent release. I lie in bed at night, convinced the Glitter posters which graced my teenage bedroom walls are still staring down at me. Utterly irrational though all of this may sound, I am terrified that he is coming to get me.
He can have no idea where I live, nor any inkling of how to find me. But the thought that he might – and the fear he may try to punish me for having spoken and written of our past friendship and having betrayed our bond, is the thing keeping me awake at night.
As such, Gary Glitter has become a rapist of my mind. He, on the other hand, gets to walk free. He can re-invent himself. He can forget about the thousands of child abuse images found on his laptop by a repair technician in 1997.
That discovery prompted his escape to Cambodia, Thailand and Vietnam, where he acted out his paedophile fantasies. He abused under-age and povertystricken girls and colluded in their coercion to help him face lesser charges.
After being released from jail in 2008, he was deported back to Britain.
He was later arrested during the Operation Yewtree investigation, and in 2015 was given a 16-year jail sentence: his punishment for historical sex offences against little girls during the 1970s and 80s. The relief I felt on learning of his incarceration was incalculable.
I assumed the then 70-year-old was likely to die behind bars. But now, aged 78, he is afforded the privilege of wiping the slate clean.
He has been writing songs fervently in prison, it is rumoured. He may record and even tour again. There is an Elephant Man intrigue to the thought of so monstrous a spectacle. Would the fans flock to gape and be horrified?
There is no shortage in the business of under-employed co-songwriters and producers of a certain vintage who would fall over themselves to assist him, if only anonymously.
They secretly respect his talent and achievements of yore. Some of these people are still my friends.
Not that Glitter, whose real name is Paul Gadd, needs the money.
The co-creator of over a dozen chart hits and close to €20million in record sales, and who will remain on the sex offender register for life, is reportedly sitting on a vast, dormant fortune.
Though no property, bank accounts, pensions, royalties nor streaming income appear to be registered in his name, rendering him technically destitute, he is rumoured to have considerable wealth. If he intends to mount a comeback tour, you can bet a string of pandemic-impoverished venues will have no qualms about taking his tainted money.
I think back to those days when we first met. In 1984, I was co-hosting a rock show on Channel 4. Gary came into our Wandsworth studio as a guest.
I was thrilled to meet one of my childhood idols. He had faded from grace but was making a comeback.
He tottered in platform boots, the zip of his top was slashed to the navel. He made jokes about his wig, and dripped with drag queen jewels. All of which should have been a
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He was kind to me. He spent money on me... I was hooked on him
massive turn-off. Yet the package was somehow endearing.
This middle-aged former chart sensation was unafraid of sending himself up. His self-deprecation was a brilliant act in itself. I loved it. He was maverick. He was kind to me.
I was young, unworldly. Few other visiting stars paid me much attention.
Gary was all over me, inviting me into his dressing room, pouring me champagne. We went for dinner that evening and many nights after.
Gary came on like a protective older brother. He would “show me the ropes”, he said. I was hooked on him. He called me the Queen. He complimented
me and spent money on me. I travelled frequently in those days for work. We sometimes found ourselves in the same city.
That was how I became close friends with David Bowie, John Entwistle of The Who and Cockney Rebel’s Steve Harley.
We dined at Elaine’s in New York, where Sylvester Stallone joined us and bought us drinks.
Michael Jackson and his then manager Frank Dileo took us out to eat in Los Angeles. There was talk of Dileo taking on Gary and masterminding his comeback. I was also a frequent guest on Gary’s boat, which he kept in Brighton’s marina.
Nothing ever happened. Nothing, that is, except his tendency to disappear.
To go off by himself for hours on end, and never to explain why. I must have wondered what he was doing. But we never discussed it.
Friends find it hard to believe that he never made a pass at me. I was clearly too old for his taste.
We never discussed sex. There was never any clue that he was addicted to child abuse imagery.
I trusted him. And I allowed a friendship to develop that with hindsight was ill-advised. It will probably haunt me for ever.
Though I could never compare what happened to me to the suffering of the children he raped and abused, I doubt I’ll ever stop thinking about him. Which means that I am serving a life sentence too.