It's quite possible that you do not know who Rylan Clark is, but he's never heard of G2
either – and if you're wondering what he's doing here in its pages, so
is he. He's just got back from a gig in Hull when we meet at the west
London offices of his management company, and will be on a plane to
Dublin later for another gig, so he's sorting out his luggage, much of
which appears to consist of miniature bottles and chocolates raided from
last night's hotel mini-bar. He is wearing an electric blue tracksuit
and Ugg boots – "FLAs, actually, they're sort of luxury Uggs" – with his
hair stuck up on end, all wonky from sleeping in the car. In the past
he has cheerfully confessed to spending every last penny on his
appearance, and would sooner go without food than economise on cosmetic
improvements, but he is one of the most unselfconscious people I have
ever met. I'm pretty sure he would struggle to identify the Guardian on a
newsstand, and he greets me with the giddy intimacy of a fellow guest
on a hen night, yet his attention is more engaged than almost any
interviewee I can recall....
The Guardian.
Sadly I do know who he is, he's one of the reasons I don't have a tellybox.
PS I apologise unreservedly for posting a photo of his fugly face.
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