David Cassidy on the Web
The famous teen heartthrob I still lust after - and how his simple gesture is still the highlight of my life
October 22, 2021
By Liz Jones
www.mailplus.co.uk
Let me count the ways. Eyes the shape of almonds. A shiny feather cut that snakes over a collar. Snaggle teeth. A torso so slight, I could get one hand around your waist if only you would let me close enough. A propensity for too-tight granddad shirts cut from cheesecloth. A necklace fashioned from shells and cow bells slung around your girlish throat.
And the voice. Oh, the voice. The breathlessness. The way he eked out the word ‘you’: ‘How can I be sure, where I stand with yeeeeeeeew.’
Could it be for ever? Well, yes! Because I’m still in love with David Cassidy, 50 years after I first set eyes on him, the day The Partridge Family first aired on British TV, and despite the fact he died in 2017: a dark, dark day. As a child, I was painfully shy, but I entered a disco dancing contest, the prize a poster of him, and I won! I travelled in a minibus to White City to see him in concert: I couldn’t hear a note, but occasionally glimpsed his white, spangled jumpsuit in the far, far distance. I made my mum buy a subscription to Jackie magazine because of its promise of a pull-out, life-sized poster. Oh, the agony when week one arrived, only to discover it was just his bottom half. The top half arrived a very long seven days later.
Those were the days of course before live streaming, and YouTube. For a glimpse of David, I had to wait all week for Top Of The Pops. He rarely made it into the studio – the antics of his fans meant no London hotel would take him – and so his appearances were mostly him miming, walking around his jet at a rain-soaked airport, the huge collar of his black shirt over his white tux, before hurrying back up the plane’s steps. The air hostess barely had time to clean his area! I didn’t know, of course, about the groupies. I thought he was sat in his psychedelic minibus, waiting for me to pass puberty.
My love for David meant I became a journalist, with the sole ambition of interviewing him, then marrying him, obviously. It took some time. I achieved the former, but not the latter. He was by then aged 50, living in Las Vegas. I had to get a plane via LA, which meant my luggage was lost. Oh no! I would have to meet him in dirty pants! I cobbled an outfit from the hotel gift shop (shiny). Dropped by a taxi outside his house, I couldn’t resist rifling through the contents of his wheelie bin for a memento. Unfortunately, his young son found me. Sneakily, he told his father of my antics, which meant my reception was frosty, to say the least, especially as I asked David, ‘Why on earth did you get rid of the feather cut?’
The love of my life mostly ignored me, staring at the many TV screens around the room showing his beloved thoroughbreds racing.
The ostensible, paper-thin reason for my visit was to talk about his new show, The Rat Pack, in which he didn’t appear, but had orchestrated. As I left his home, I think he felt sorry for me, and relented slightly, saying he would arrange a table that night next to the stage.
I was feverish. I bought more pants. I turned up, sat at my little table, back straight, on high alert for the jingle of cow bells. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I swivelled expectantly. It was a waiter, proffering a glass of champagne.
‘With the compliments of Mr Cassidy.’
That, dear readers, remains the highlight of my life.
