I’m not going to pretend I’m some saint, because I’m not.
Too much awesome in one picture.
En Kort En Lang | Jacob
Lounging by the pool of a Sunset Strip hotel is a milksop, skinny-malink Brit tourist in bad shorts. His rodenty face sniffs the Los Angeles air, pondering food. It’s lunchtime, and he’s not long up. His spriggy hair, styled by hangover and pillow, wafts in the breeze. A fashion-backwards T-shirt hangs off his meagre shoulders. 5ft 7in in his terry-towelling socks and invisible if he turns sideways, this pasty Englishman won’t be going near the water lest one of the sunbathing LA hunks sits on him.
Meet Matt Bellamy, anti-rock star. Singer and songwriter, pianist and guitarist, fond of playing the latter behind his head. Sci-fi enthusiast, conspiracy theorist. A 32-year-old former painter and decorator (“It is,” he confirms, “all about the preparation”) so concerned by the threat of impending planet-wide doom that he’s stockpiled a two-year supply of freeze-dried emergency rations. He has it stored in the cellars of his villa in Lake Como in Italy. George Clooney is a neighbour.