OK, so here's what happened...

Some years ago, I worked on a magazine in the Middle East. The Pretenders were coming through, so I managed to score a phoner with Chrissie Hynde, about a week in advance of their arrival. It was a nice conversation and after a day of interviews with, as she said, people who barely knew who she was, she was happy to gossip about her career, books, films, food, Dylan, more food and so on.
The culinary angle clearly seemed to be working, and I commented on the profusion of vegetarian Indian snackeries that were dotted about town and ventured that perhaps, once she was here, she might like to check them out? Enthusiastic response in the affirmative.

A week later, and Hynde and the gang are in town. Her PR, a rather flustered Lebanese lady (who had to be given a short primer on the history of The Pretenders beforehand) was calling me at work all day. "Can you please come and meet Chrissie now. She says she is bored." I replied I had to be at work til 7, when, as we agreed, we would meet in a small square downtown and I would take her for a wander through some of the souks, before ending up at a lovely little puri stall, as advertised during our phone call. The PR called an hour later. "PLEASE come soon. I think Chrissie is now angry with me and she is saying she will just go out alone. I can't let her do this!"

Finally, I managed to leave the office and received another call from the PR lady. "I have taken Chrissie to eat at nice Arabic restaurant. She said she wanted to see traditional Arabic place. But now she is even more angry!". I hastened to the venue, only to find that it was an old fashioned grill, where if you don't like lamb, you can have chicken. Or perhaps some fish. Naturally, this had hardly pleased CH. She was sitting there with a face like thunder as baffled waiters kept clearing the untouched platters of kebabs, shish taouks, kibbeh and (my favourite), raw lamb and bulgar wheat, kibbe nayah.

I offered to take her to a nearby Indian snack stall, but the PR lady - who clearly had never set foot in the more lively part of town, the harbourside, which was much poorer and dirtier and infinitely more exciting than the bland, soulless skyscraper hell of the 'uptown' district - freaked. "You can't take Chrissie there!" she hissed at me. "It's not safe!" Of course, it was perfectly safe. However, the PR lady wasn't having any of it. Hynde clocked my boots (leather) and shoulder bag (leather too) and gave me a look which could have sliced a coconut at thirty yards. "Well, this is greeaaat," she drawled. I wobbled something about being happy to see her. The PR beamed obliviously. "This is real Arabic traditional place" she trilled. I picked at some houmus and pita bread in solidarity with Hynde, while those great big mounded platters of meat steamed enticingly on the next table.

We did end up making it to the souk afterwards. She picked out a garish cheap Hawaiian shirt and commented that her "ex" would have loved it. "Would that be Ray?" I piped up naively, earning another blank, black look.

The gig was great though.And the afterparty was fun. "Let me tell you about Bob," she said, picking up a glass of wine and settling down next to me. "You see, we were touring together in '81 or '82 and..." Just then some bloke came over and whispered to her and she got up, promising to return momentarily (She was also going to tell me about a plan to record an album of T-REX covers). She never did. Gah!

Charlotte Rampling and Julie Christie with the Bollinger.