Two camp queens met on a TV sofa, one ironic, the other the object of ironic idolatry; one archly beautiful at 62, the other pushing 50 and mumsy; the one cold, the other warm.
Ms Cold doesn’t do garrulous: she’s succinct, faintly amused – she knows too much knowing talk is not cool. Ms Warm never stops talking, she’s not cool but she’s smart, and though she’s the interviewer, talks more than Ms Cold.
Ms Cold says she’s in a “happy rut” – turning on its head any notion that a boring life is the starting point for tabloidy confession. “You’ve great cheek bones,” says Ms Warm. “So have you,” says Ms Cold. “You’re single – are you looking for somebody?” asks Ms Warm. Ms Cold bares beautiful, flawless white teeth in a parrying rictus and sort of shrugs her shoulders – as if to say “Yeah, why not?” Ms Cold doesn’t do lonely.
Ms Cold mentions a movie she’s got a bit part in – Elegy – “with Sir Ben Kingsley” she adds with slight over-emphasis on the Sir – to distance herself from a meaningless foreign honours system. “I’d love to develop a character through a movie”, reveals Ms Cold, meaning she’d like to be a film star.
Ms Warm’s damp warmth condenses into a fast-moving mist as it hits the luminous iceberg – there is a blurring or dimming because the questions grow longer and unfocussed to muted response – but both maintain their respective temperatures admirably in a quiet collision of different weather systems. “You should write a book!” barks Ms Warm. Ms Cold picks up an imaginary pen and writes in thin air – and smiles. Charades looks good on TV.
Who would have thought that Lorraine Kelly would ever get talk to Debbie Harry?