Hi Rod, have I told you lately that we can make loads of money to­gether

Wicklow People (West Edition) - - OPINION - with David Medcalf med­der­s­me­dia@gmail.com

‘HI Rod, I hope you don’t mind me ad­dress­ing you in such ca­sual style. It’s just that start­ing this let­ter “Dear Mis­ter Ste­wart” would fly in the face of ev­ery­thing I have ever read or seen of you. Trust­ing this com­mu­ni­ca­tion to your record­ing com­pany, or to your agewnt, or to your pro­mot­ers might not be such a good idea. Best to cut out the mid­dle-men here, I feel. Best if we just keep this be­tween our­selves as it might just be the mak­ings of a handy lit­tle earner for both of us…’

I am mark­ing the en­ve­lope ‘Pri­vate & Per­sonal’ to keep the con­tents away from pry­ing eyes and send­ing it to ‘Sir Rod Ste­wart, Singer, Es­sex’. The post of­fice in Eng­land should have no prob­lem track­ing him down.

‘…So to what do you owe the plea­sure, you must be ask­ing your­self. Why is an un­known Ir­ish­man tak­ing the time and trou­ble to write to you (in old-fash­ioned long­hand)? Must be some­thing of in­ter­est, you’ll be think­ing.

A new song per­haps? No, though you could use some fresh ma­te­rial, dare I say. Some sar­to­rial ad­vice, maybe? No, your correspondent has the dress sense of Johnny Forty­coats…’

Hmm. Scrub out Forty­coats. Some­thing closer to Rod’s roots is re­quired.

‘…has the dress sense of a Bay City Roller, caught in a sad sev­en­ties time warp. This let­ter is by way of be­ing a busi­ness pro­posal. I con­sid­ered mak­ing a pitch to Tom Jones but I come to you in­stead. I thought I’d let you in on the ground floor, so to speak.’ That should catch his at­ten­tion. Let’s cut to the chase. ‘Rod, it may sur­prise you to know that there’s a guy with a frizzy wig and a tar­tan scarf ap­pear­ing this very evening at the El Par­adiso lounge in Los Para­noia, Tener­ife billed as “Red Ste­wart - Tonight’s the Night”.

Hermione – that’s my wife, by the way – caught up with this Red lad as we strolled hand in hand along the sea front while on sub-trop­i­cal is­land hol­i­day. There, next to the all-day-break­fast joint, we heard some­one singing “Mag­gie May” and giv­ing it socks, in a bar-cum-restau­rant.

In fair­ness, he made a fair fist of it too, though he needs to gar­gle his tonsils in Glen Fid­dich for a cou­ple of years be­fore he matches the mas­ter. And he only had a tiny stage in a cor­ner un­der the TV, so he wasn’t risk­ing any show-off hero­ics with the mike stand for fear of in­jur­ing the cou­ple eat­ing paella in the front row.

After spot­ting this dop­pel­ganger the once, we no­ticed his pro­mo­tional ma­te­rial all over. Mon­days, Red and his karaoke ma­chine hit the Hasta La Vista in Los Crus­tianos. Tues­days, he is “Sail­ing” into Puerto Colonica. And so on, seven nights a week.

Now, be­fore you ring your le­gal ad­vis­ers to have this man stopped in his back­ing tracks, let me sug­gest a cun­ning al­ter­na­tive. Why don’t you and me set up a TV doc­u­men­tary? We’ll get a cam­era crew to fol­low this Red Ste­wart around the pubs and clubs of Tener­ife. Then on the last night of film­ing, you hop up out of the au­di­ence – unan­nounced, like - and join him in a cho­rus of “The First Cut is the Deep­est”. If poor old Red doesn’t have a coro­nary on the spot, it should make a great im­promptu duet.

This could be mega, Rod, with a se­ries to be made, easy-peasy, be­cause there are trib­ute acts around ev­ery cor­ner out here. You prob­a­bly have con­tact de­tails for Tom Jones, or how about Neil Di­a­mond, Mad­ness (yes, one man cov­ers all of Mad­ness), Sting, the girls from Abba and Diana Ross?

Un­for­tu­nately, some of the artistes are be­yond the scope of such an am­bush by the real thing. Even as I write, Hermione is check­ing out a man with a leather jacket and a dodgy mous­tache who be­lieves he is chan­nelling the late Ge­orge Michael.

And I have started coach­ing young Perse­phone in the art of imi­tat­ing Dusty Spring­field. Our daugh­ter wanted to try her hand at Adele but I per­suaded her that she has enough hair for the bee­hive look. If the Leav­ing Cert does not work out for her, then she can al­ways earn a liv­ing with “Son of a Preacher Man”.

I look for­ward to hear­ing back from you soon­est,

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