Confessions of a Showbiz Reporter

Table of Contents

Title Page

Cyber celebrities

Just another sunday night

College

Getting started

Publicists

London

Festivals

Premieres

Home life

Freelance

Bodyguards

Sources

Flirting

Johnny Depp

Junkets

The Family

The movie of my life

Almost famous

Press conferences

Sarah Jessica Parker

Boy bands

Old Rockers

No personal questions

Personal questions … please!

The good, the bad, and the interview

Beyoncé

TV Totty

The camera adds ten pounds

Food

Beauty

Clash of the egos

Money

Kate Moss

Cannes

Secrets

Rihanna

I’ll always have Paris

Reality TV

Adele

Los Angeles

Technology

Bruce Willis

Child stars

Middle Age

I Am Cynic

Watching films

Tom Hanks

Demands

Harrison Ford

Tom Cruise

Rappers

Obituaries

Hugh Jackman

Smells

A new age

Epilogue

Pop quiz

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

Confessions of a Showbiz Reporter is part of the bestselling ‘Confessions’ series. Also available:

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

As you might have heard said before a film, everything here is ‘inspired by true events’. However, to protect confidentiality some names have been changed and certain elements of the stories have been fictionalised. Nonetheless, they remain an honest reflection of my experience working in showbiz journalism over many years. Enjoy!

Cyber celebrities

Top ten celebrity internet searches of 20121

Kim Kardashian

Justin Bieber

Miley Cyrus

Rihanna

Lindsay Lohan

Katy Perry

Selena Gomez

Jennifer Aniston

Nicki Minaj

Taylor Swift

These ten people are basically my bread and butter.

In my time as a showbiz reporter, the biggest change I’ve seen is just how much we rely on these internet searches. The web might have started out as a geek’s playground in the nineties, but it’s now entirely mainstream – and it’s my biggest outlet. I write stories that go up on it, I research celebs that I’m interviewing with it and I buy things from ASOS through it when I’ve got an event to attend. Like it is for many people, the internet is part of my job’s daily routine.

In my line of work, though, the internet has achieved a fairly unique breakthrough: it has given you more power. You’re my boss. True, someone needs to write features about these stars in the first place, but once they’re online, it’s up to you who you search for. Just look at the first two names for proof. Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber became global brands purely through the power of the internet; fans latched on to their appeal way before us in the press. I’m not sure the people watching grainy footage of Kim getting it on with her boyfriend were the same as those watching a 12-year-old Justin singing R’n’B on YouTube, but the principle is the same. The media can still do a lot to fuel a showbiz fire, but more now than ever, what’s hot is often out of our hands. With a largely free internet at our fingertips, the celebrity world is more accessible than ever before.

So after I’ve done my bit – writing and researching articles, interviewing celebrities, attending junkets – it’s over to you. Who you spend your time looking up determines who we spend our time focusing on. If you resent that eminent scientists and liberal thinkers are missing from the list, start searching for a few and maybe we’ll have to take notice. But that’s the great thing about modern media: it’s no longer so full of snobby journalists hiding out in their ivory towers, bleating about what they fancy and taking no notice of their audience. The internet’s too transparent for that. These days, we’re all in this showbiz world together.

And what a world it is …

Just another sunday night

Sunday 12 February 2012. It’s the night of the BAFTA Film Awards ceremony and I’m bloody freezing.

We’re in the heart of what we call the ‘season’ – those few months during which all the key awards ceremonies seem to take place, everything from the Brits to the Oscars, the BAFTAs and the Elle Style Awards. The trouble with the ‘season’ is that it’s always during the winter. Fine, maybe, for the celebs who party until the small hours in the heated surroundings of the Royal Opera House or the O2, but for us reporters standing outside on the red carpet waiting for them to talk into our microphones, the setting is just a few degrees away from being positively arctic.

I watch my breath blossom into steam in the icy air and crack open yet another hand-warmer pad, tucking it discreetly into the back of my knickers so that it warms the small of my back. Bliss. There’s the first lesson from the showbiz world for you: underneath the opulence there’s always something significantly more unglamorous.

I’m huddled behind a rope with a group of fellow reporters, all women in evening dresses as per the rules of such an upmarket event. Even at an occasion like the BAFTAs, it seems odd to see people so smartly dressed packed into a small space like animals. We’d probably look more at home in the orange suits worn by caged prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. Still, we all courteously compliment each other on our outfits, despite recognising that it’s difficult to look fabulous when you’re shaking harder than a nervous X Factor contestant.

An ice-cold wind blows up this back street of London’s Covent Garden area, a road that has been transformed into something truly special, with huge spotlights, advertising banners and that all-important crimson flooring. On one side of the carpet are scores of reporters; on the other are crowds of fans. Every reporter is required to wear an all-important accreditation around our necks and be in position about an hour before the famous people actually start turning up. We’ve now been here about 55 minutes. The tension is palpable. So is the frost forming at the end of my nose.

… And then it begins, not the celebrity procession, but an unstoppable thought growing in my brain. Every time I have to cover one of these events, it’s always the same. I can’t help it. I’m gritting my teeth; it’s still there, a loud scream in my head, shouting out in capital letters as I check my watch for the millionth time:

‘I BLOODY HATE THIS JOB!’

The bubbly girl huddled next to me is someone I’ve only seen reporting from the red carpets for the last few months; she smiles at me and giggles. Newbies – they’re the only ones that look happy.

‘You okay?’ she asks.

‘Hmmmmm,’ I mumble back.

On the outside I smile back at her. Inside I’m crying. She’ll understand one day.

Then, suddenly, a roar of excitement erupts from down the line. I crank my head around to see what’s happening. Someone is arriving! I rise up from my frozen slouch, microphone at the ready. The carpet is finally starting to fill, a stream of invited guests, not all famous, but each lucky enough to have a ticket to the British movie world’s most important night. The screams in the distance suggest a big star has stepped out of their limousine and is beginning the long walk past the crowds. Around me I hear mumbled suggestions as to who it could be:

‘Is it Clooney?’

‘Please let it be Michael Fassbender!’

‘Knowing our luck it’ll be Peter Andre.’

The shouting is getting louder, deafening almost. Camera flashes spark out from the crowds. Okay, Holls, I tell myself, here we go. It’s time to snap out of the black mood. Women with clipboards are scurrying about at the fence in front of me, talking into headsets and suddenly pointing in my direction. So much action after so much nothing. I shift the hand-warmer pad on my back slightly and take a deep breath. Then someone says …

‘Brad, this is Holly Forrest.’

In the blink of an eye, Brad Pitt is standing in front of me. Shit! Brad ruddy Pitt! He’s smirking, rubbing his hands together to keep warm and looking at me expectantly. The PR girl who’s introduced him stands silently to his side. After an hour of twiddling my thumbs, I have about half-a-second to crank into gear.

‘Hi,’ I say. Except I don’t. What I actually say is more like ‘huh’. My mouth has become so frozen from the cold that my face is more like a ventriloquist’s than a professional journalist.

‘Oh. Hi, Holly. Are you okay?’

‘Yersh, fine.’

Brad Pitt is looking at me weirdly. In an attempt to regain feeling in my lips I’m pouting like a Page 3 girl, and it’s clearly got him a little worried.

‘We’ve met before, right?’

Suddenly, my face flushes. I can feel warmth in my skin again. In fact, I’m blushing. Well, that’s certainly one way of getting my facial features back into working order, I think – get a major Hollywood heart-throb to say that he remembers you. Who cares if I’ve just been doing ridiculous mouth acrobatics in front of one of the world’s most famous men? None of that matters any more because Brad Pitt has said that he remembers me.

Of course, the second lesson of the showbiz world is that celebs often pretend to recognise you, because they know how great it makes you feel. Does Brad really remember me? I quickly calculate that I have interviewed him at least three times before so although it’s unlikely, it’s not actually out of the question. In truth, the warm buzz of excitement now washing over me doesn’t mind whether he’s lying or not. If you want to play that game, Bradley, I’ll go with it.

The hour that I’ve been waiting here, slowly freezing and losing the will to live, begins to feel like a distant memory. Cold? What cold? The passion of the crowds, the importance of the night and the fact that I’ve now got Benjamin Button at his most beautiful standing just a couple of feet away and claiming to know me are all combining to remind me of something very important, something that up until a few minutes ago I’d completely forgotten. It’s a feeling that always comes back. It’s all I can do now to stop myself from running up the length of the red carpet in front of me and blurting it out to the crowd.

‘I BLOODY LOVE THIS JOB!’

Shaking any distractions out of my head I focus and the interview begins, a well-rehearsed two-hander that Brad and I have both performed many times. Now my mouth has defrosted I’m quickly into the usual line of investigation.

‘What do you think are your chances of winning?’

‘What attracted you to the role?’

‘How’s the family?’

I know – not exactly Paxman, right? Red carpets, though, aren’t the place for intensity. It’s all just a show and everyone’s got a script to follow. Even Brad:

‘I’m just proud to be nominated … The role had a lot of scope to it … Angie and the kids are hanging at home right now …’

Despite the formality, I’m loving it. ‘How could I ever complain about this job?’ I’m thinking, as I occasionally lose myself in his sea-blue eyes. This is my home. The chaos going on around me as more stars arrive; the screams of fans, the hails of reporters and photographers; the antenna in my head constantly listening out for a headline or a scoop: these are my comfort zones. The third lesson in showbiz reporting is that this job has a habit of stirring up conflicting emotions, highs and lows – but ultimately I always come back to the same happy conclusion. Right now, there is no other place I’d rather be.

The beaming new girl calls over to me and I’m back down to earth. My 45 seconds with Brad has finished and he’s moved on up the line.

‘I saw you, Holly Forrest! You were flirting with Brad Pitt.’

‘What? And you wouldn’t?’ I call back. It’s true, though, and I’m still flushing. It’s not just that I’ve forgotten about it being cold. I’m now actually hot under the collar.

Brad Pitt, ladies and gentlemen. When it comes to heating you up, he’s significantly more effective than a hand-warmer pad down your pants.

College

I had been fascinated by showbiz for a long time, probably because I came from a very average background. The god-like looks and lifestyles of the rich and famous were far removed from my own sedate upbringing; I couldn’t help but be dazzled by their tropical allure. But as a child sat gawping in front of Top of the Pops every Thursday night, it never occurred to me that I could make a living from the entertainment world. I was far too meek and mild a character to ever be a performer myself; that celebrities had the guts that I lacked to be in the spotlight was part of their mystique. It was only when I grew older, crucially in those final weeks of my English degree when I really needed to start thinking about how I would earn a salary, that it occurred to me that the life of a showbiz reporter could be the one for me. While I might never emulate my teen heroes – acting like Julia Roberts, singing like Mariah Carey or dancing like Paula Abdul – I could at least bask in their glow a little closer. And, who knows, by mingling with the glitterati, maybe some of their confidence would even rub off on me too? This career could be part enjoyment, part psychiatry.

How did I turn this into reality? First of all, like many career paths, I had to study, which certainly wasn’t as enjoyable as I’d hoped it might be. Journalism, I was convinced, could be exciting and revolutionary; the right words, the perfect questions, could inform, entertain and even shape history. Being taught how to do that, however, was a strangely monotonous nuts-and-bolts experience – and, like analysing a joke, often lost sight of what made it fun in the first place.

Let’s take a trip back to the late nineties, and I’ll tell you all about it. Britpop’s on the radio, Leo’s playing Romeo at the cinema and – like every student in the country – I’m ploughing my way through cult classic The Beach by Alex Garland.

Oh, I can taste the pints of snakebite and black just thinking about it …

I was studying at a small town college in northern England. I was actually only there for a few months but, because I was miserable, it seemed like a lifetime. After my interesting and undeniably free-thinking degree in English Literature, this much more practical postgraduate course felt very dry. Suddenly, after three years of fanciful theories and intellectual posturing, I had to be straight and serious. As an undergrad, I floated about quoting Virginia Woolf and had few worries about the future. Now I was knuckling down and preparing for an actual job.

I’d enjoyed writing for the student newspaper as an undergrad and had watched every episode of Press Gang as a young girl; I knew what I wanted to do and was aware that some kind of professional qualifications wouldn’t go amiss if I wanted to be a proper entertainment journalist. This was, after all, in the days before anyone could start up a blog and become a ‘writer’. Back then wannabe journalists felt the need to actually – shock horror – train. I’d plumped for this particular course simply because it had been the only one with a flyer in my university’s careers library.

This postgrad diploma, while adding another few thousand pounds to my student loan, should at least help me to fulfil my dream. By learning the ropes of writing a story and doing an interview I’d be able to then use that knowledge to focus on my chosen field of entertainment. It was a big commitment but – in my head at least – simple. I was confident I’d be joined by fellow open-minded arts students, so what could go wrong?

My peers and lecturers, of course, had other ideas. While the course I chose was no doubt a fabulous one for people wanting to be political heavyweights writing for the Financial Times, my showbiz goals were slightly less catered for. All traces of entertainment had seemingly been deleted from our lessons. I spent my days in shorthand classes – an utterly boring skill which teaches you, over many hours, to simply write a little bit quicker – and getting ‘vox pops’ on the streets. God I hate ‘vox pops’, the technical term for the soundbites journalists collect from people out doing their shopping which you see on news programmes and read in the papers (‘vox pop’, a rather slang Latin term, translates as ‘voice of the people’). Just one glimpse of my sullen face, giant microphone in hand, and the locals would scurry away from me. Chris Brown would get a better welcome at a women’s refuge. This, I would think to myself as I made my way back to college with only the wise words of the local street cleaner on my minidisc recorder, wasn’t as much fun as talking about gigs, gossip and the latest happenings on Hollyoaks. It was going to be a long few months …