Sitting in a penthouse suite on the 32nd floor of London's prestigious Hilton Hotel, Lee MacDougall sips on a 1972 Armagnac and gazes out across the sun kissed London skyline. Below the faint hum drum of the bustling streets of expensive Park Lane is barely audible. Dressed in a fur coat and trilby hat adorned with a single red rose, he turns back towards me,
"I just wanna keep it real, y'know? It's important to me that I stay true to myself, my roots, and my music."
He draws heavily on a large cuban cigar, worthy of Fidel Castro himself, and gestures towards his PA to refill his brandy glass.
"I'm just a normal working class lad from Grimsby, caught up in all this madness, know what I mean? People say I've changed and that, but I don't think I have.."
He is interrupted by a knock on the door, and a well spoken voice delivers a brief message that Mr MacDougall's guests have arrived. Apparently they are the finest London can offer, and dressed in matching feather boas and brassiere, one would not disagree. MacDougall's publicist jumps from his seat fidgeting nervously and in what can only be described as a cold sweat, he ushers me hastily out of the room and declares that unfortunately due to unforseen circumstances our interview must be postponed until a later date. I turn to see security ready to escort me back down to the lobby and it becomes clear that the party is indeed over... for myself that is...
Keith Ormand-Smythe (Taste Magazine May 2008)