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www.concrete-online.co.uk Tuesday 6th December 2011 - Issue 262
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Joey Essex: Behind the fake tan When Hannah Britt met Joey Essex, star of The Only Way Is Essex, things did not go to plan
F
ake tan applied and false eyelashes in place, I arrive at Project in downtown Norwich for the start of their Reem Party. In a few hours, the stage would be graced by none other than Joey Essex, the beloved star of The Only Way Is Essex. But, before he goes on stage, I am going to interview the man himself for Concrete. Famous for quotes such as, “Who’s the prime minister of Essex?” in all honesty, I was not holding out much hope for a deeply intellectual interview. However, nothing could prepare me for the disaster which was about to unfold. “Follow me girls, I’ll set you up in VIP,” sounds like the start of a good night, right? Wrong. I am sipping on my third (or maybe fourth) cocktail when a buzz goes round the room: Joey is in the building. I am ushered out of VIP and into the backstage area. Joey is in the bathroom. I wait. My eyes wander to a table, there’s a list of things Joey would like upon arrival to the club. On the list there are Dairylea Lunchables, pineapple juice, vodka and ready salted crisps. What a diva. When Joey emerges he is a vision of orange. He looks tired; his face is puffy. He is, however, glowing. Not as one would glow after an expensive facial, but as would after a nuclear radiation leak. He is wearing his signature outfit: a tight, white t-shirt and even tighter denim shorts. He is smaller than I imagined. I feel like the jolly green giant standing next to him in my six inch heels. I wish I’d worn flats. I usher him to a sofa. We sit. The interview begins. I tell him it’s fantastic to meet him, that I love TOWIE, that I’d once seen him in Sugar Hut in Essex and that the excitement I felt that day was a close second to Christmas. Joey looks blankly at me, “I like your watch,” he says, “it’s well reem.” Brilliant, Joey likes me already. I have a good feeling about this. Unfortunately it doesn’t take long for that feeling to fade. “Er ... wait what?” Joey says in answer to my inquiry as to his opinion
of the economic situation at the moment. He scowls at me. Fabulous. I take a different tact and ask him about vajazzles. Now, for those of you that have yet to have the pleasure of watching TOWIE, a vajazzle is when one has little gems (crystals, not lettuces) placed in an aesthetically pleasing pattern around one’s private parts. What a lovely idea, right? Don’t worry, I won’t be offended if you put your issue of Concrete down while you rush out and get one. But back to Joey. Upon the mention of the word vajazzle, Joey is back in the game. Clearly in his comfort zone, his little puffy face lights up: “I ain’t never looked at one really, Sam never got one when I was with her. But love hearts are the best.” So there you have it ladies, the way to Joey Essex’s heart is by framing your bits with a spangled love heart. Sod Kate Adie, this is hard hitting journalism at it’s very best. Joey’s enthusiasm is short lived, however, as he stumbles over the use of the word “inspiration” in my next question. “What do you mean?” he asks, bemused, when probed about the inspirations behind his style. We look at each other in silence for a moment. I wonder if he’s joking. He’s not. I think of another way to ask him, speaking slowly so he understands. Somewhere deep inside his brain a low watt light bulb flickers: “I just wear what I want to really,” he says. I begin wondering if interviewing a potato would be more interesting when Joey suddenly stands up, making me jump, and points at himself. “This is called Joey Essex,” he shouts, “that’s it.” He sits back down. When asked what he
thinks of Norwich, Joey says he has “only been here for five minutes,” he thinks it’s “reem” but doesn’t really know, he doesn’t think he’s ever been here before. The light bulb flickers again. “Fuck, are we in UEA?” I
Snog/Marry/Avoid
Joey picks... Snog Lucy Mecklenburgh Marry Sam Faires Avoid Lauren Goodger nod. “Is UEA near Norwich?” Is he being serious? Oh, wait, he is. Nice one Joey. Very reem. Thanks to Mr Essex, the word “reem” has entered the vocabulary of the TOWIEwatching public. One could say that Joey Essex is
the modern day Shakespeare. Sort of. The word in question is actually a Swedish slang term used to describe an incredibly sexy and talented individual. I, however, am starting to prefer Urban Dictionary’s definition of “reem,” which is something along the lines of: “saying this word automatically gives others permission to belt you around the face with a shovel.” But what does Joey think? Keen to get the Essex Shakespeare’s view, I ask him. “I just heard it in south London. I like it. It’s reem,” he replies. I ask him if he knows that its roots lie in the Swedish language. “What do you mean?” he asks. I try to explain. “What?” he asks again. I give up. I begin to wonder if Joey would buy a dictionary if they introduced the word “reem” into it. Probably not. While I’m musing this, he gets up again. “Is it me or is it hot in here?” he asks. I tell him that I’m sorry but I can’t help being so hot. I laugh at my own joke. Joey looks at me blankly. He turns around and heads towards the bathroom. I, naturally, follow. I tell him to run his wrists under some cold water to cool himself down, he asks where we heard such a stupid idea, I tell him that I don’t know, but I might have seen it in a rubbish TV programme on ITV2 . After a few minutes, Joey’s wrists are cool enough for us to leave the bathroom. Fantastic. Is he ready to answer my questions again? Of course he’s not. He comments on my watch again, which is bright orange. Maybe he’s feeling inspired as to his next shade of fake tan. Or he would, if he knew what the word “inspired” meant. He picks up the copy of Concrete I’ve brought with me and takes a picture of it on his phone. “What’s this?” he asks.
He seems agitated. He gets up again. I tell him he seems nervous. He tells me he’s not. I try another question, what type of girl does Joey Essex go for usually? “They’ve just gotta be reem man.” Fabulous, I think, this interview is going to change the world. The way Joey Essex is portrayed onscreen is as a dim but charismatic young man with a heart of gold. “I’m just myself on it”, Joey says of his onscreen persona. Bollocks. He must be happy with the way the producers of TOWIE edit the programme because so far the only characteristic I can vouch for is that he is dim, very dim. His favourite food must be dim sum. If he was a household appliance, he’d be a dimmer switch. His favourite political commentator (if he had any idea what that means) would be Jonathon Dimbleby. At this point, Joey sits down and starts picking at his knee. He tells me it hurts. Now it’s my turn to look bemused. This interview just gets better and better doesn’t it? Michael Parkinson eat your heart out. I tell him it’s probably an ingrown hair. “What’s one of them?” asks Mr Essex. I explain. “It’s hurting, do something,” he says. I tell him that I don’t really have much experience in dealing with the pain caused from ingrown hairs. Bloody hell. “I need to go outside. I’m boiling,” Joey looks visibly flustered, he is beginning to sweat. “I can’t handle this, I’m hot,” he says. Then he gets up and I watch, incredulous, as his little orange legs scuttle out of the door. I’m speechless: something which doesn’t happen often, let me tell you. Tucking Concrete under my arm I go to follow. My path is blocked by Joey’s security guard. Even in my heels, he is a foot taller than me and about eight times as wide. I contemplate taking a run at the door but I decide against it. He could snap me like a Toblerone. “Joey’s not doing anymore interviews tonight,” is all he says, his arms folded. Brilliant.