Reader, I let you down. But I did so for the right reason: for love. On a night when all of London’s music critics were at the Royal Festival Hall for Christine and the Queens, I deserted my duty. But, honestly, I don’t regret it. The reports back from the RFH suggested some baffling melange of performance art, am dram, experimental pop and gender identity, wrapped up in a concept piece about red cars. Not me. I’ll stick with Rod, a man so comfortable with his gender identity that he’s a byword for male libido.
Rod is a man so comfortable with his gender identity that he’s a byword for male libido
My love for Rod Stewart is pure and noble. I love that he embraces his own absolute Rodness; that, at just shy of 77, he’s still all leopardskin print and skintight trousers, hair like a haystack in which some young couple have been writhing.
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