What's that, you say? It's a load of old codswallop? Well, yes, if you want to nitpick. But it's certainly no more ludicrous than the rest of the swill that has been written about this woman since her death. The one truly alarming thing that Yates's death did reveal to me was not about the madness of modern society, but rather about the silliness of serious newspapers. It revealed, rather shockingly, that the broadsheet press is now home to even more Sob Sisters than the traditionally mocked tabloids.
Come on down, Muriel, Justine, Jane, Deborah, Yvonne. The byline was different, but the sob remained the same: Paula Yates Died For Our Sins; Paula Yates, Innocent Victim Of A Feeding-Frenzied Media; Tragic Paula, Broken Butterfly On The Wheel Of Misogyny. Paula, We Hardly Knew You! What Are We Doing? What Does It Mean? Where Are We Going? Where Have We Been? What's It All About, Alfie! Muriel Gray, who I can only hope has since been sedated, went so far as to write of Yates that she was the most powerful British female role model of our age - a role model, in a country that contains Barbara Castle, Dr Sheila Cassidy and Kate Moss. A role model whose currency was blowjobs and breast enhancement. In the words of the great Jim Royle: Arse.
I'll put my cards on the table here. I met Paula when we were both 17, and we loathed each other from the word go. I came back to my desk at the NME one afternoon, and she was sitting on it, legs wide apart, no knickers, screeching at the top of her voice about sex. I was, without doubt, a stuck-up little madam, but I'd never seen anything so gross in my life.
I've read many times since that Paula was a part of "the London punk scene", but this wasn't true at all; she never went to the Roxy or the Vortex, and she didn't know any of the groups - the Clash, Sex Pistols, the Jam or even, God help her, the Damned. I actually knew the groupies of the time, and they were intelligent, hard-working young women of working-class extraction, with names such as Sue and Tracey and Debbie, who were (and punk was unique in this, as far as I know) respected by the bands as mates and equals who just happened to get a lot of shagging done. None of these girls would have dreamed of giving any musician a blowjob 20 minutes after meeting him (and especially not Bob Geldof - Jesus!); that was sad, tacky, 60s free-love shit.
Touchingly, Paula couldn't even be a groupie properly. She was too needy, too clammy. No wonder the other Boomtown Rats called her "The Limpet"; as Queen Groupie titles go, it's hardly "The Mouth" or "Platinum Pussy", is it?
She envied me my cred; I envied her her confidence. We never stopped loathing each other. Our last point of contact was when a mutual friend tried to make peace, and she spat at him, "Don't talk about that woman to me, because it's like talking to the Jews about Hitler" - a remark, it must be said, that in its sheer self-importance and tastelessness was typical of Paula. Nevertheless, our lives ran parallel. We both got married at 19 to stroppy, bossy horrors, and had children. In 1995, we both left our husbands for rather more exciting young lovers. I remember being in bed with my girlfriend at Blakes Hotel when I heard that Paula and Michael Hutchence had just been ambushed by the paparazzi coming out of a hotel - not as classy a one as Blakes, though - a few streets away; I remember feeling really clever that I was "invisible", and that I could commit adultery without paying the price of public ridicule and reprimand. Eight weeks later, my lady love and I were splashed all over the tabloid press and my mother was crying inconsolably down the phone, on top of nursing my dad through the cancer that would soon kill him. Served me right.
We both lost custody of our children to bitter, self-righteous men, and suffered further media bullying about our suitability as mothers. We both took up with younger men, though mine turned out to be a total gem and hers turned out to be a parade of junkies, jokes and kiss-and-sellers. We both bought houses by the seaside, but, whereas I turned my back on London, Paula hung on in there, falling out of her dress at pap-infested parties and premieres. Keeping one foot in this arena meant, inevitably, that Paula would fret about her fading beauty, which was not a problem for me. Though I was a beautiful young woman, my looks were only ever the icing on the cake - writing was what really mattered. A good writer, when she could be bothered, Paula neglected her craft in favour of frocks and famous men; she expected to have an easy ride through life because she was blonde and fluffy.
For a reputedly smart woman, why didn't she realise that being blonde and fluffy is no basis on which to build a life, and that Baby Doll turns to Baby Jane pretty damned quick if held a beat too long? F Scott Fitzgerald wrote of poor mad, dead Zelda, "Too late, she realised that work is the only dignity." Paula, with her fantasies of being a perfect 50s homemaker, never realised this.
No doubt having learned from our initial rejection and belated recognition of Monroe as a comrade in the sex war, we are always ready to claim any woman as a "sister" when she dies young. But there is a happy medium between being catty and being over-emotional. Paula was not Marilyn, and she was certainly not the Princess of Wales; she had no resonance or significance for society as a whole, just to the people who loved her, which was surely enough. Let her be remembered, then, as a person, and by those who knew her; not as a symbol, a syndrome or a modern malaise by the Sob Sisters, however sympathetic, who didn't. Let her go.
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