DAY I BROUGHT ROD’S INFLATED EGO CRASHING DOWN TO EARTH
FOR a man with a well-documented, lifelong obsession with leggy blondes, Rod Stewart has a surprisingly camp sense of humour. I just adore him.
In the Seventies, he happily joined in when we gave ourselves drag names: I was Sharon, my manager John Reid was Beryl and Rod was Phyllis.
Then, when the Press started speculating about my hair falling out, he sent me one of those helmet-shaped hairdryers that old women used to sit under in salons. Keen to reciprocate his thoughtfulness, I sent him a Zimmer frame covered in fairy lights.
Even today, if Rod’s got an album out that’s selling better than mine, I know it’s only a matter of time before he emails me: ‘Hello, Sharon, just writing to say I’m sorry that your record’s not even in the Top 100, dear. What a pity when mine’s doing so well. Love, Phyllis.’
This kind of thing reached a peak in the Eighties. Rod was playing Earls Court, and the promoters advertised the gig by flying a blimp with his face on it over the venue.
I was staying in London and could see it from my hotel room. It was too good an opportunity to miss. So I called my management, who hired someone to shoot it down: apparently it landed on top of a double-decker bus and was last seen heading towards Putney.
An hour later, the phone went. It was Rod, spluttering: ‘Where’s my f***ing balloon gone? It was you, wasn’t it? You cow! You bitch!’ A year later, when I was playing Pals: Elton and Rod Stewart in 1978 Olympia, the promoters hung a huge banner across the street. It was mysteriously cut down immediately after it was put up.
I learned this had happened from Rod, who seemed curiously well-informed. ‘Such a shame about your banner, love. I heard it wasn’t even up five minutes. I bet you didn’t even get to see it.’
After I came out of rehab, I didn’t appear on stage for 18 months. But I made an exception for Rod’s gig at Wembley Arena. I unexpectedly turned up on stage in full drag, then sat on his lap while he tried to sing You’re In My Heart.
I’d been told I shouldn’t do any work, I should concentrate on getting well. But spoiling things for Rod has never felt like work, more a thoroughly enjoyable hobby.