I dislike gossip. I think because I dislike the effect that
it has on its often innocent victims.
During a recent
poetry assignation, I was very pleased to uncover the truth about the lives of
several celebrity visitors to The Imperial Hotel in Blackpool. I have a shared history with the hotel: my
Dad was Head Cocktail Bartender during the 1950s and I had a little insider information
about one or two guests. A lot more research helped me to call a halt to an
urban myth that grew from the sensationalised circumstances surrounding her
death and also helped to discredit the gossips who painted her in stereotypical
fashion.
Jayne Mansfield Slept Here
I pride myself that I simply won’t be drawn into
pre-emptive, derogatory remarks about colleagues, friends or even complete
strangers. I prefer to understand people
by how they treat me and not listen to the poison that some delight in passing
on. I would be very hurt if it were to happen to me. I have a big, tender and
generous heart. My philosophy in life is firstly not to listen to the nasties
and secondly if some, ‘well-meaning- holder-of-a- big-wooden-spoon’ attempts to damage
another’s reputation in my earshot, I will not acquiesce and I will certainly
not pass on the information to others.
Perhaps because my parents both served during WW2, Mum making
aircraft and Dad in India, the idea was instilled that ‘Loose lips costs ships.’
Gossip during the war cost lives. Gossip and misinformation can be a very
dangerous thing even now. I have signed the Official Secrets Act at least three
times and have been entrusted with many secrets in my workplace.
The Freedom of Information Act has turned us into a nation
of truth seekers. We no longer have to suffer the indignity of being denied
access to the truth and judging by the amount of lies, corruption and crime
that has been secreted away in the filing cabinets of those who sought to
protect perpetrators’, this is a long-overdue change in British Law.
Naturally, we may never discover who kidnapped Shergar, or
the real location of Lord Lucan, but if people who try to damage children are not
sleeping at night, people who cover-up wrong-doing during a football stadium
disaster and newspaper hackers have to be named and punished, then we are really
beginning to call a halt to much of the nastiness in British society.
Jayne Mansfield Slept Here
Platinum blonde and buxom,
the beaming Broadway babe,
bomb-shelled into
Hollywood
aboard “The Wayward Bus”.
Typecast by the studios,
in a string of dumbed-down
roles,
Jayne was exploited
willingly,
despite her intellect, her
violin and arts degree.
“Promises, Promises” was an
overnight sensation
naked on the screen, she was
a total revelation
leaving absolutely nothing to
the imagination,
and she became a Playboy
centre- fold
wearing only staples and a
smile.
When she came to Blackpool
she lit the Golden Mile.
At the Imperial she made a
splash,
bouncing down the stairs
in a flash of brash bikini,
turning heads and steaming
glasses
of the afternoon tea set,
jaws all dropping at the
thought
of Mrs Mansfield getting wet,
swimming in the hotel pool;
and when she left her Royal
suite,
bartenders rolled between her
sheets,
so they could boast, or so
it’s said,
they’d been in the lady’s
bed!
Jayne died at thirty-five
on the road to New Orleans,
two children by her side,
her beloved Chihuahuas
tucked in for the ride.
Black and white stills
scream in a technicolour dream,
brutally exposing her final scene.
So the legend mangled into urban myth,
but we can reveal that both alive or
dead,
Hollywood star, Jayne Mansfield
always kept her head.
Thanks for reading. Adele
