Licenced To Gill

My old friend Gill Smith passed away earlier this year. I first met her at Record Mirror in 1985, where she was funny, loud and expressly alive. Everyone liked her, even Morrissey, who renamed her Nancy Culp after a character in the Beverly Hillbillies. She was an amusing gossip columnist, who used to get her sharpest stories from hairdressers to the stars. I also remember her swishing a riding crop around the office to discipline writers with errant deadlines. And in certain parts of the London demi-monde, herself and her pal Bev were saluted as the Rubber Goddesses.

Gill later moved to the NME and the laughter continued for a few years, before we all grew out of that caper. And for the last six months or so, I followed her fighting decline though the medium of Facebook.

Last week, there was a celebration of her life, with many old friends gathering in the West End of London. Hilarious photos were fetched out, old stories resurfaced and for a short time, we recaptured the essence of another time. Many of the characters are still doing well. Roger Morton is now managing Razorlight and Janis Long is still loving her music on the radio. Others are managing decently in TV production and publishing. But I think we all concluded that the current era is less frivolous and lacking in some essential zest. Gill got the best of it.

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