Pictured here yesterday in special Yorkshire Day sunglasses. Laying claim to having entertained the bongo drummer out of T.Rex, the second drummer in the Glitter Band, the bass player out of Slade, the guitarist out of Roxy Music, the Sweet, and most of Wizzard on one night of their all-star glam reunion tour in 1981 (13th May, Doncaster Alhambra), she insists her memory for individual names is far less important than her recall of their poptastic credentials.
She has an amazing recall for sordid details and can recount a lengthy and shocking tale for each of the notches on the heavily-scarred broomstick she is never seen without. This detailed recollection is all the more surprising as she has never knowingly turned down any substance offered her (save a Twix, once, her reasoning being that if a Mars Bar was good enough for Marianne it was good enough for her.).
Chocolate, she claims, is a sacrament. She can often be found wandering the streets of London drenched in it - and it alone - as if participating in some hippy dirty-protest performance art, and threatening to violently smear herself on unlucky passers-by. Indeed, those who have had the 'pleasure' of visiting "the Old Hallam House", as it is known by pent-up young men locally, will be enchanted by the many shrines to a vast array of chocolatiers that can be found in every room of that cursed building.
There is one good thing to say about Jools, though: she is always very handy on those rare occasions when the whiskey turns too sour or the brandy becomes undrinkable. She merely whips out a candle from some nook or cranny about her person and, whilst whirling on the spot - well, pretty much nearly on the spot - commences an invocation thus:
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!
On Ilkley Moor Bah Tat
On Ilkley Moor Bah Tat
La-la-la-la I believe I can fly
La-la-la-la Oooh - or do I?
La-la-la-la Up in the sky-y-y-y-y
La-la-la-la Right way up high-igh-igh
La-la-la-la Banish those bad spirits - ooooooooooooooh! - goodbye-bye-bye.
She then places all the bottles of "bad spirits" in her capacious carpet bag and leaves quickly. It certainly seems to work. For her, at any rate.
On evenings of the full moon she will hold what she describes as psycho-psychic-psychedelic happenings. These include fortune-telling using either cards, tea leaves, palmistry, a crystal ball, or - until a recent intervention by the licensing authority's Health and Safety fascist goons - the entrails of a freshly-slaughtered goat.
Unable to foretell the next day's weather with almost the accuracy of the Met Office, she is much sought after for advice on picnicking plans.
She is also able - when in a deep, alcohol-sustained trance - to summon forth those from the 'other side' who seem peculiarly willing to help with such mundane matters as where someone has mislaid their keys. Speaking in a voice not her own - one more refined, elegant, and less Yorkshire - she will channel the spirits thus, "Does anyone here know a of Charles who has passed? No? Wait it's....Charlotte.... no....no-one? Wait it's coming through clearly now - Carol?....Carlotta?....Carl? Oooooh, for flip's sake give me clue won't one of you?"
She has yet to reveal to us (although not, apparently, the members of Showaddywaddy) what she refers to as her "famous golden chakras".
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