Kate Moss attends the launch party for "Kate: The Kate Moss Book". She is now a music writer too. Photo: Getty.
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Vogue snaps up Kate Moss as a music critic – music press collectively kicks itself

Forget 25 years of modelling, fashion collections for Topshop and shenanigans with Pete Doherty, what Kate Moss was really put on this earth to do was review an MOR covers album by her mate George Michael.

Kate Moss has become a music critic. The British supermodel has starred in music videos, dated several musicians and in 2011 married the Kills’ guitarist Jamie Hince – so writing an in-no-ways-biased review of her bezzie mate George Michael’s new album, Symphonica, for Vogue was in many ways what she was destined to do. One can only speculate why the NME didn’t snap her up years ago.

The album was hand-delivered to her by George Michael himself. It was 8.45pm on a Tuesday night when the doorbell rang and she opened the door to find the actual George Michael outside, just standing there. This was OK though, because, she reveals, “I knew he was coming”. He’s clearly calmed down with that turning up unannounced on a weekday night thing. Supermodels get cross and don’t review your albums when you do that – you should have seen what Naomi did. 

George makes Kate tearful but sometimes not quite so tearful. The new song “You’ve Changed” almost made her want to cry – which is a pretty big deal, but not as bad as when she was 12 and she didn’t get tickets to his last Wham! gig. Then, she remembers, she really did cry: “I was so upset that I just cried.”

When you’re fashion’s Kate Moss, you can bring something different and exciting to music reviews. You can liven up your critical opinions with colourful, gritty insider stories, as K-Mo does when she tells the story of how she danced with George Michael at his house and – EXCLUSIVE! – “he did all the George Michael moves!” All his own moves?! (Though presumably not the one in which he drives his car into Snappy Snaps.) This is truly Hunter S Thompson gonzo-type stuff. More please, Kate.

Also, when you’re celebrated music critic Kate Moss, you can call on your hubby for special, even more expert opinion. Take this insight from Hince, for instance:  George “has got this thing with his voice that’s kind of crazy. He’s in that tradition of Sinatra, Johnny Cash and Elvis.” So, um, yes, just like Sinatra, Cash and Elvis, George is indeed a male singer. With a voice. Who sings. You can’t buy this kind of blinding insight (but you can buy Kate’s new collection for Topshop – available in all flagship stores soon!)

But Media Mole agrees completely that George Michael has got a “kind of crazy” thing with his voice. A thing with which George touched Kate in places she is only today attempting to fathom. But not just that – oh no – as well as its mining strange, new places deep within Moss’s physiology and/or psyche, it simultaneously transported her to galaxies hithertoe untravelled or comprehended (do keep up). Presumably the unfathomable places deep within K-Mo were also transported to the unfathomable new places beyond, otherwise – ouch:

 For me, it's the vulnerability, openness and richness of his voice that does it. The depth of where that comes from touches you in a place that you can't even begin to understand and all of a sudden it's not just a song anymore; it becomes an emotion and it takes you into another dimension.

But you know what? Kate Moss can teach fellow journalists a hell of a lot. Most professional scribblers who have gone through years of journo school, internships and training will understand the difficulty of finding the right ending for a piece. You need a sentence that will sum up your argument, something that’s profound but doesn’t sound too trite or pretentious. You want a thought or an idea that might challenge or provoke the reader, or that will stick in their mind. Few of us ever achieve this. Kate solves the problem perfectly, finishing her piece with:


I'm a mole, innit.

Steve Garry
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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism