A fter 10 years of interviewing almost every celebrity in showbiz, I've come to one conclusion – female stars terrify me. My job as a showbiz writer has seen me tunelessly serenaded, argued with and hit with sex toys. So, after years of writing for magazines and newspapers, I'm not sure I can interview another female reality-show starlet, profile another girl band member or telly hostess.
Perhaps it's because in the misogynistic business of celebrity, a woman's fame-clock is ticking louder and quicker than a man's, making her more ambitious, more determined and more hard work to interview. While Bruce Forsyth's graying temples won't stop him presenting Strictly Come Dancing, will Tess Daly be standing by his side once she reaches the menopause? Probably not.
No female "celebrities" are worse than those born on reality TV, as they're under the illusion that the journalist is there to serve them. One ex-Big Brother housemate's assistant called me to order two heaters for our interview because "she doesn't do cold atmospheres". "And make sure you have a green apple ready for her. Washed."
On our introduction, she snarled: "I don't really care what you do, I want a peppermint tea." And after the interview, I regretted offering her a lift into town when she forced my taxi driver to stop at every newsagent to find a bottle of water at room temperature. For each shop that failed to deliver, a tantrum erupted. I survived five stops before walking home. Every diva has her day, and you know that day's going to be a long one when she's in front of a photographer.
I watched incredulously as one diminutive diva dragged an all-male entourage of 18 stylists, masseuses and nail technicians into the studio.
When she ordered a spruce of mousse for her luscious locks, it took the assistant to the assistant to the hair stylist to squirt some into his hands, pass it to the assistant, then the stylist, then the diva herself. By moving a foot, she could have grabbed it herself. But this was less about hair and more about reminding everyone she was in charge. Five hours of primping and preening later, she left after two rolls of film, blaming "exhaustion".
Before another shoot, a member of a cheesy boy/girl band told me she was a size eight. But on the day, it was obvious she was at least a 14. After a frantic warning from her PA of the repercussions if I let the fat out of the bag, I persuaded the make-up artist to keep her highness occupied while the stylist dashed out to get larger clothes. Then I cut out every label, leaving her none the wiser.
The interview, however, was a disaster. The only question she answered without her PA's help was: "Who's the sexiest man alive?" "Elvis," she said.
All celebrities lie, but women are much better at it. One supermodel with a druggy past was incredibly convincing when she tearfully told me she had turned over a new leaf. "I've worked my butt off to get where I am and no one is going to destroy that," she said as I fell for it. Not long after, she was exposed as a £10,000-a-night cocaine-snorting call girl.
Two thirtysomething actresses were best pals who holidayed together, said their PRs. So I organised a photo shoot and interview about their friendship, only to discover one didn't know the other had just made a fitness DVD, while the other had no clue her "friend" had just had a child. Turns out they were doing the feature to get a free holiday. Of course, not together.
Lying about your age is acceptable, if you do it properly. A British boxer's girlfriend must have been punch drunk when she told me she was 26. "Any brothers or sisters?," I asked. "A younger brother – he's 30," she said. Another bad liar, an ex-It Girl, cancelled at very short notice, blaming food poisoning. My boss showed me photos of her stumbling from a club the previous night, inebriated and vomiting.
My first brush with unpredictable interviewees came as an 18-year-old trainee when Hi-de-Hi's Ruth Madoc made me squeeze her nostrils. She was going into detail about her sinus problems when she shoved my fingers on her nose to prove its tightness.
And it's only got worse. It was nearly impossible to stifle a smirk as one Spice Girl told me: "John, my music is going to wash over you like a warm soapy bath." And I considered drowning myself in that bath when she admitted: "The more I use my heart, the more tender it becomes. It's like a filet mignon." Eager to prove she could cut it live, she sang tunelessly at me in a restaurant for three minutes, before launching into song number two.
Asked about her "culinary" skills, one Jordan wannabe dragged out a bin liner crammed with sex toys to prove her prowess. There's not much left to say when you're hit in the stomach by a large latex fist.
Of course, it's unfair to tar all female stars with the same temperamental brush. Angelina Jolie's so successful she had no need to prove anything, yet she was still warm, witty, and remains the only woman I've ever interviewed wore no make-up. Even control-freak Madonna smiled and let me sit through a full-dress rehearsal of a concert when bungling security men mistakenly ushered me in.
And women who've accepted their time in the spotlight is fading are a delight. Bucks Fizz singer Cheryl Baker amusingly revealed her problems with flatulence, while scoffing half a cheesecake. But this is a breed that's fast dying out. And as female stars demand longevity equal to their male peers, the road to a smooth interview has never looked bumpier. Give me Bruce Forsyth any time.
John Marrs is a freelance journalist who worked for the News of the World
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