Sting and Trudie, please get a room -- or a padded cell
My first pin-up was Sting. It was when I was in third year in boarding school. Everyone else had David Van Day from Dollar. Or Billy Idol. Me, I was all about The Police. Their gig at Leixlip was the first I ever went to.
I remember the summer of 1983. Every Breath You Take was the theme song to my Leaving Cert. And then, when Sting went solo, I was still an ardent fan.
Since then, he's gone and dashed my teenage memories by turning into a dirty old man. First, in the 1990s when he revealed his penchant for tantric sex. All that stuff about him and Trudie Styler, his missus, going at it for eight hours or more was just, well, gross.
He later went on to say it was a joke, and that he gave the quotes for a laugh, after a drinking session with 'Sir' Bob Geldof, but the damage was done.
Now he's gone and done it again. Grossed me (and possibly most who read the story) out by saying the secret to his 30-year marriage is -- wait for it -- and I quote -- "tawdry sex".
Yes, apparently Mr and Mrs Sumner like their conjugals to be "tawdry and non-pedestrian." The singer (and rain forest saviour) says "I like the theatre of sex. I like to look good. I like her to dress up. I like to dress her up."
Eew, eew and thrice eew. Reading that is not as bad as hearing your parents like sex, it's as bad as catching them at it.
Sting and Trudie should of course be given kudos for staying together for 30 years, especially in such a world where marital break-ups and infidelity are the norm.
But when asked the secret to their success, could they not blush and put it down to an "unbreakable bond" or similar schmaltz, rather than giving us the vocal equivalent of the Kama Sutra?
To bang on about their lovelife so much, and in such a smug way, makes me wince. It also makes me wonder why the Sumner-Stylers feel it so important to share so much with the world. Is there a case that the gentleman may attest just a little too much?
In my experience, the sure-fire way to know someone is getting no action, is to hear them boasting about it.
I mean, cast your mind back to the sixth form, and the advanced boys and or girls that boasted about their fantastical -- if not entirely true -- sexploits? Has Sting not learned by now that it's always the quiet ones who have the tales to tell? Or does his showbiz-addled brain think that we're going to swallow up (oops, perhaps a bad choice of words) every sound bite he feeds us?
If I were Sting, or Trudie, I'd keep mum about what goes on in their bedroom. Or living room. Or kitchen. Or wherever they may indulge in their non-pedestrian relations.
I'd focus more on the slushy stuff, which he also is happy to dole out quotes on. Ones like, "Trudie lights up my world when she comes into a room. I don't take her for granted."
But humble, heartstring-tugging thoughts like that don't make headlines. And if you're in the business of selling records, and feeding your ego with acres of print, it's never going to do the job.
Sting, Trudie ... get a room. Perhaps a padded cell?