Take Amy pleas with a sprinkling of her fairy dust
A FEW years back I was working on a newspaper when the phone rang.
“My name is Carol, and I’m a psychic,” said the caller.
“Then you’ll have foreseen what’s about to happen now, then,” I replied, slamming the phone down.
For that is the joy of dealing with the general public – all human life is there, including the screaming nutjobs.
And now lobbed into that pot of oddballs is Mitch Winehouse, dad of the late Back to Black singer Amy.
He was across the pond last week launching the US branch of the Amy Winehouse Foundation, saying he’d been chatting to his dead daughter through a psychic.
Apparently, the tragic singer is “fully behind everything that we’re doing and she’s up in heaven waving her magic wand”.
Then he sang four songs with a jazz band, at one point pausing to kiss his mobile phone which apparently had a photo of Amy on it.
He’s got a book coming out in June which is – wait for it – all about Amy, too, with proceeds going to the foundation.
Now, I have no problem at all with the laudable aim of raising funds to help unfortunate kids, which is what the foundation is all about.
But asking me to picture a hard living hellraiser like Amy chatting via a crystal ball crank while sprinkling fairy dust from her cloudy eyrie is frankly taking the f***ing piss.
In her own words, Mitch, me old china: No, no, no!