For the amorous Muppet Miss Piggy, with whom Elton was to perform a duet, it was back not to the dressing room but the store cupboard.

For Elton, who takes his chairmanship of Watford Football Club seriously, it was an opportunity to race off to see his team in action. He hired a helicopter for £200, then had to prevail on the police to escort him from Birmingham Airport to West Bromwich Albion football ground. He arrived minutes before the 7.30p.m. kick-off only to see Watford lose 3-2 — the first time he’d seen his team defeated.

The following day Elton was prickly, but politely so. During a brief break in recording, his newly-transplanted pate was bent over a pile of autograph books. Later, once the show was in the can and the studio empty of fans, he was all smiles.

After a phenomenal six years with earnings estimated at £7 million a year — roughly half that figure from royalties alone — he came off the road at the end of 1976. He still insists it’s for good — an insistence reinforced by the announcement that his charity appearance at Wembley last November was his last live show, marking his retirement from the stage altogether.

“It was just a matter of finding the right time,” he said, looking down at what were for him conservatively styled boots. “I don’t regret those years but now I’m rid of them I’m relieved to be starting my life all over. I don’t think anything I’ve written so far is really of much consequence. And I know I can write something of great consequence.”

Until he decided to take a breather he’d enjoyed playing big stadiums surrounded by a seemingly limidess sea of faces. “But quite suddenly I got fed up with seeing people’s faces squashed against fences. I thought, ‘Well, this might be great for me but is it so great for them?’ It wasn’t normal. I had to stop. Re-think.

“When I’ve been on tour I’ve always had bodyguards with me because there was always some crank who wanted to beat me up or shoot me. I went from plane to hotel. From hotel to plane. I tried keeping in touch with everything going on in the world but whatever I did I felt more and more remote.

“I lost my sense of values. I didn’t appreciate what people did for me, nor did I have any idea of how much pleasure just a small thought gives to people. I even resented people wanting my autograph because I’d forgotten what it was like to be on the other side of the fence. The more the wheel turned the more dangerous it felt. So to give up wasn’t a hard decision. It was a gut feeling and I’ve always relied on my instincts.”

His self-assessment docs him no favours. He is after all the man who in 1975 chartered a jet because he thought it would be a nice idea to fly all his office staff, their relatives and friends out to Los Angeles for a corporate jaunt. The gesture is typical of him. As was his refusal to sign up with Rocket, his own record company, until 1976 — four years after it was formed — when he felt it had proved itself.

Elton John hasn’t, and won’t join the ranks of tax exiles, although he is indebted to America for his overnight success story which began in 1970. He does, however, have a home in Beverley Hills.

In all he didn’t spend more than eight weeks in the States last year. There was a six-week holiday, his appearances in Madison Square Garden, another to launch his album The Greatest Hits Vol II and a book called It’s A Little Bit Funny — a photographic collection by David Nutter of Elton’s unguarded moments, with text written by lyricist Bernie Taupin. There were also four days spent recording in Seattle with pianist and ex-Stylistics producer Thom Bell. This session produced six “blatantly pop, blatantly black” tracks for his spring album and a single due for release this month which will be his first new one since Blue Moves on the Rocket label 14 months ago.

Once he was out of the goldfish bowl Elton’s great “down-to-earther” was Watford Football Club. “I was dealing on a normal basis with normal people again. There are still things that I miss, like going for walks or getting on buses. I’d get paranoid thinking everyone was looking and pointing at me. I love the smell of buses. Watford’s been my equivalent of getting on a bus — and sitting in the front seat.”

As a boy they’d been his local team. When he heard they were falling on hard times in 1974 he went along, thinking they’d be put off by his pink hair and eight-inch platform shoes, and offered to do a benefit concert for the club at their ground. About 26,000 people came and they raised £20,000. He became a director, never thinking he’d become chairman, and now football — or rather Watford — is his passion. “Either it’s that,” he laughed, “or it’s being able to tell all my friends that I’m chairman of a football club.”

Another of Elton’s preoccupations this year has been getting Goaldiggers, this country’s only football charity, off the ground. So far he, Jimmy Hill, Brian Moore, Brian Mears and Eric Morecambe under the patronage of the Duke of Edinburgh, have raised enough money to build 20 or so floodlit all-purpose-surface pitches for youngsters in under-privileged areas. The proceeds of his Wembley concert last November went to the Goaldiggers.

Underneath the glossy veneer of the superstar lifestyle and his personal joky image, Elton John has always seemed pretty ordinary, shy and surprisingly insecure. Somewhere there’s a component, a facility for success, everyone’s missed. When he came off the road the Elton ego and image collapsed temporarily. He lost interest in the way he looked, ate too much, drank too much. When he appointed Graham Taylor manager of Watford all that changed, he said, because he recognised something of his old self in Taylor’s dynamic determination, and he wanted to keep pace with him.

“There are two things I could have done,” he said. “I could either have shut myself away, become thoroughly miserable and ruined myself in the process but I realised how ridiculous it was to become a recluse.

“The only other thing I could do was to cope and come to terms with my success. After all I created it.”

The post Where were Elton and Miss Piggy when the lights went out? appeared first on THIS IS ATV NETWORK from Transdiffusion.

When they built Hollywood, they built it for Miss Piggy. The star on her dressing room door is the biggest I’ve ever seen. And the tantrum coming from inside is certainly the loudest I’ve ever heard.

A familiar high-pitched voice is screaming: “This is my best angle, my best, my best!” There’s a hubbub of soothing voices and then: “I’m right, I’m right!”

Not the best time to interview the daunting doyenne of stage and TV screen about her Hollywood debut.

But, as I’ve already waited at the studio for two hours, I take a deep breath and knock.

Immediately the shouting stops. A harassed maid opens the door. Behind her, Miss Piggy is lying on a velvet chaise longue, her retinue of make-up girls, hairdressers, wardrobe ladies, chauffeur, secretary and valet around as her delicate little pink trotters are being manicured.

“Who the hell . . .?” she starts crossly, then her secretary whispers my name. “Oh, a cover article,” she simpers. Her eyelashes flutter. She waves limply towards me, but barely glances up. “Lesleee, dear, how lovely to see you. What a divine outfit. I’ll be with you in a teensey minute.

“I’ve been filming with dear Roberto Hope and the sweet man was so overcome he wouldn’t let me leave. My time is so short. It’s one of the penalties of being a superstar — I’m sure you’ll understand, dear.”

Two hours later I’m not so understanding. Miss Piggy is still in her gold-plated bathroom — the bath is shaped like an oyster, the shell opens up at the touch of a button — with her hairdressers and make-up girls.

Suddenly the door opens with a flourish and there she is, a picture of porcine beauty in a cloud of mauve sequins, feathers and tulle, jewelled turban and white fur stole. She looks every inch the star she says she is.

“Oh, Miss Piggy, how beautiful you look,” I gush.

“Yes, I know,” says Miss Piggy airily, tossing back her blonde curls. “I am the epitome of glamour and I always like to look my best. I am a star and I must live like a star. If only my fans around the world could see me in person… my inner beauty, my true self… ”

Then she tears herself away from her mirror and says to me, “O.K., cut the cackle. Waddyer want to know? You’ve got 20 minutes.” What I really want to know is about her rumoured face lift, about the “rest cure” that added inches to her voluptuous figure, the truth about her romance with Kermit the Frog, the rumours about her torrid relationship with The Incredible Hulk.

But she fixes me with those steely baby-blue eyes and instead I end up lamely asking: “Well, how are you enjoying your stay in Hollywood?”

Miss Piggy, wrapping her stole around her, sets the tone for the whole interview. “I think the question is, Lesleee, how is Hollywood enjoying moi? They’re so lucky I could fit them in my schedule.

“Of course, the film certainly hasn’t tested my true talents. It’s a cute, sweet little movie, but it’s not the Miss Piggy story that I’m certain everyone would like to see. That’s probably going to be my next movie.

“Oh, I’ve had tons of offers since I’ve been here, but I just haven’t had time to read those silly little scripts. I’m just a little woman… sometimes it’s all too much for me.”

She sighs and flutters her eyelashes. We’re interrupted by servants bringing in lunch. Miss Piggy lifts a dish and screams at the unit publicist.

“Regina! How many times do I have to tell you ham salad is definitely out, out, out!”

All sweetness and light again, she confides to me. “Lesleee, dear, Burt and Cary are desperate to co-star with me. But all I think about is my frog. He’s here with me in Hollywood. We go out jaunting quite a bit — parties, premieres, things like that. And quiet evenings alone when I dismiss the servants. You dig what I mean?” She laughs coarsely.

“Could I ask you a personal question?” I wonder.

“Lay it on me,” says Miss Piggy, elegantly crossing her legs.

“Are you going to marry Kermit?” I ask.

“Oh, Lesleee, Lesleee, yes, marriage is something I certainly want, but I have my wonderful career. Kermit is always begging me to marry him. This little green thing crawling towards me saying ‘Please marry me’! It’s a sad sight. I find there’s a larger world out there wanting my talents. So I think I’ll just string the frog along for a while.”

The photographer arrives to take pictures of the two of us. Miss Piggy decides she would photograph better from my seat, so we swap places. “Jack, I want to see every single negative,” she orders the photographer. “Remember, Jack, I have picture approval.”

“Miss Piggy, have you achieved your ambition now that you’re a world-famous star in Hollywood?” I ask her.

“No, dear. I always knew I would be both successful and beautiful. I must forge on. It’s a large responsibility to be the glamour image of the decade.”

What about the competition from all the other glamorous superstars in Hollywood?

“Dear Raquel, dear Farrah,” coos Miss Piggy. “Sweet little girls, but no competition. They’re always asking me what I do for beauty, what I eat, if I exercise.”

“Could I ask you that?”

“Of course you can.”

“What do you do?”

“Get chased around by a frog,” she said. “What else?”

I take a deep breath and plunge in with my next question. “Everyone in Hollywood has a little cosmetic help — eyes lifted here, chin there. I wonder if you, er…”

Miss Piggy stops me with an icy stare. “Do you think I have?” she demands.

“Well, I can’t see any sign,” I stammer, looking at her hairline.

“I very strongly suggest that you don’t,” she thunders. “Next question.”

“How do you keep your marvellous figure?” I ask timidly.

“Some pigs have it, some pigs don’t. I’ve got it, kid,” she says, smoothing her hips. “I need hardly work at all to keep beautiful and trim. Maybe four or five hours a day at most.”

What about jogging, I ask. “Why, Lesleee?” she demands coldly. “Why would little moi need to jog? Think carefully before you answer.” Simply for enjoyment, I stutter. “No, I don’t do that for enjoyment, I do other things,” Miss Piggy says, leering vampishly. “You know what I mean, kid.”

I decide to risk another question. “In these modem times, I wonder if you and Kermit are co-habiting?” I ask innocently.

Miss Piggy flutters her lashes. “Co-whatting?” she simpers. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’m just a little woman. All I know is that nothing is more important than love, and that means my frog. Men come running after me. Running. Look at me… irresistible. I’ve had to get four new telephone numbers since I’ve been in this town. Men keep calling, tanned good-looking beach boys, but I’m just too busy.”

We’ve all heard stories about the Hollywood casting couch, I venture. “Oh, I’ve heard stories,” Miss Piggy says contemptuously. “But I feel a woman in today’s society does not have to be involved in that sort of thing. I am a star-studded talent. No one would dare try that with me. I do it if I feel like it. No, that’s a joke. Don’t print that, I’ll sue.”

She preens the feather in her turban, looks at her watch and smiles sweetly. “Time’s up, sweetie. Close the door on your way out.”

There’s one last question, I add hastily. “Everyone wants to know your age, your secret of looking like a teenager at your time of life.”

Her eyes freeze. “Lesleee, dear, it’s not that I’m shy about telling my age, I just feel that when one is a superstar, age doesn’t enter into it. Age is but an infinitesimal part of one’s make-up. The irridescence of being what I am is all that’s really important.”

That’s a lovely reply, I tell her, gritting my teeth. “Yes, wasn’t it? Thank you, dear, goodbyeee.”

As I close the door I hear her shriek at her publicity man: “What sort of question was that? Why didn’t you tell her I never discuss my age? Never, never! Why didn’t you stop her asking about face-lifts? If that happens again, you’re fired!”

The mumbled, soothing, sounds start up again …

The post The men in my life and the life in my men – by Miss Piggy appeared first on THIS IS ATV NETWORK from Transdiffusion.