Getting cosy with Kelvin MacKenzie

picture credit: the Guardian

By Harriet Thurley

I arrive at my interview with Kelvin MacKenzie at Charlotte Street Hotel near Soho. It’s 11.15am. I’m 45 minutes early. I have spare batteries stuffed into every pocket, more than enough to power the dictaphone, camera and Flipcam I’m carrying for at least a year. It’s best to be prepared.

I’ve spent days researching MacKenzie, watching him in YouTube clips and reading his column in The Sun to try and discover why he has been described as the “lowest of the low”, a “dangerous genius”, “The Great Man” and everything in between.

I check my dictaphone works one last time.

At exactly 12pm, he appears. He walks towards me and the entrance of the hotel cafe talking on his Blackberry. After hanging up his phone, he shakes my hand and says: “Cold hands, warm heart.” I regret my response immediately: “That’s what my granddad says”.

He strides into the cafe and chooses a round table big enough for eight people. We order coffees. “So, how are we going to do this?” he asks.

We talk for an hour. I encourage his hilarious anecdotes and metaphors. Occasionally he edges towards the voice recorder when he knows he has a great one-liner to deliver. When he is satisfied with his comment he sits back in his chair with a huge grin.

I stop my dictaphone halfway through and listen back to ensure it is picking up our conversation. Thankfully, it is.

MacKenzie curses often and talks loudly, causing a few heads to turn when he bellows words such as “shagging” and dildos”. It is only a Thursday afternoon and we are in a nice part of town. He laughs off the attention.

Before I get to Tottenham Court Road tube station I check my dictaphone. Just in case. I play back a snippet of our conversation then put it away. Before I go down the steps to the station, something makes me want to check it again. Just in case. I look at the screen. I can’t find the dictation. It reads: ‘66 minutes remaining’. My heart sinks. It’s gone. “No,” I whimper. “Please no.” I mash some buttons. It’s really gone.

I panic. What will my tutor say? What will my friends think? Can I go back to the cafe and ask him to do it all over again? I start to run back, still mashing the buttons. Then suddenly the recording appears. Thank goodness.

Note to self: first pay packet goes on a new dictaphone.

My conclusion: Kelvin MacKenzie is indeed a dangerous genius but a rather pleasant and hilarious one. Read the full article in the 25th edition of XCity – out April 2011.