Speaking of Cliff, a few years ago I got on a number 8 bus going east along Bethnal Green Road. I was headed for The Block, and was dressed accordingly. Whatever odd sights I witnessed that night at The Block were nothing compared to my bus journey there. Sat opposite me was a middle-aged woman carrying a rolled-up poster. Somehow, perplexingly, we got talking. She had just come from the Royal Albert Hall, where Cliff had been performing.
"And you know, all those other women, the common fans, were there. But what they don't know is that I'm married to Cliff. Oh yes, but I can't tell them that, it would ruin his career. You know, he keeps an eye on me - he flies over my house in a helicopter just to make sure I'm alright: 'it's OK Joan, I'm watching over you,' he says. It's good that the real Cliff has started performing again. For the last five years, the Cliff that you've seen on telly or in concert was a lookalike, an imposter. If you looked closely, you could see he was Indian. That's because the real one was living with me. But those other women, the ones who were queueing to get him to sign their posters, they didn't know that. He fooled everyone, my Cliff."