Cindy Crawford told me Christy Turlington is the greatest supermodel of them all

Cindy Crawford told me Christy Turlington is the greatest supermodel of them all

Cindy Crawford told me Christy Turlington is the greatest supermodel of them all. Now I know why

Last updated at 1:50 AM on 15th May 2011


I interviewed Des O’Connor tonight for Life Stories, and a mountingtension was in the air.

Des is the last of my six subjects on thisseries, and up to now, not one of my guests – Russell Brand, PatsyPalmer, Ann Widdecombe, David Hasselhoff and John Prescott – has cried.

Des O

Des O”Connor didn”t help my nerves by informing me determinedly in his dressing room (before the Life Stories interview), “You won”t get me to cry!”

I’ve tried all my usual tactics to wring a tear out of them, but nothing – a simple onion would have done it better, frankly.

Des, who got a rare standing ovation from the audience at the end of aquite brilliant interview, didn’t help my nerves by informing medeterminedly in his dressing room,

‘You won’t get me to cry!’

Well, there’s a challenge.

At 8.35pm, Des cried.

And an hour later, he cried again.


Christy Turlington was almost breathtakingly beautiful

Christy Turlington was almost breathtakingly beautiful


When I interviewed Cindy Crawford for GQ, she told me that she thoughtthe greatest supermodel of them all was Christy Turlington.

Today, I got to meet Christy for myself and see why.

It’s a fascinating experience encountering famous sex symbols in the flesh, as I’m fortunate enough to do quite often in my job.

Many (the gentleman in me prevents me from giving names) are bitterlydisappointing – their faces desecrated by years of totally unnecessaryplastic surgery.

Others, the ones who’ve resisted the knife, are sometimes even betterthan you imagine close up – Princess Diana was startlingly so, as wasEva Longoria recently.

And Cindy herself was almost breathtakinglybeautiful.

I can now add Christy to that list.

She sat opposite me in my New York CNN studio this afternoon withalmost flawless radiant skin (a few telltale laughter lines prove thelack of a surgeon’s aid), piercing green eyes and those immortalcheekbones still as naturally sculpted as ever.

She was funny, intelligent, warm and interesting.

And when she left, Christy glided her 5ft 10in frame out of the doorwith the effortless ease of a gazelle strolling across a prairie.

I’ve now met all the most famous supermodels – Cindy, Naomi, Kate (Moss), Claudia (Schiffer) and Linda (Evangelista).

And they’re all, in their own way, dazzling.

But I can see why Cindy says Christy’s No 1. She was as close to female physical perfection as you can get.

I’ve been in Las Vegas for four days, judging the bootcamp stage ofAmerica’s Got Talent. We’ve never seen so much genuine talent before,so the process has been a lot more difficult and challenging thannormal.

But you can always rely on Sharon Osbourne to provide some much-neededlevity in the midst of such a pressurised environment. As we got to thecrucial elimination stage this afternoon – where we inform all the actsif they’ve made it to the prized Hollywood live shows – Sharon began toget a fit of the giggles.

It started when six giant dancing gnomes stood on stage waiting to heartheir fate. Shortly after a parrot that had got stage fright andresolutely refused to sing.

There’s nothing worse than sitting in a giant theatre, with noaudience, in total silence, trying to be deadly serious withcontestants, with a corpsing Sharon Osbourne next to you.

As she heaved with laughter so hard I thought she’d explode, a producer ran over to try to calm her down.

‘OK, I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, still roaring with uncontrollable laughter.

She eventually composed herself, and then an unusually shaped singing group marched out.

And she promptly disintegrated again – this time provoking me to join in.

Within seconds, we were both weeping and howling with laughter.

‘Let’s take a break,’ sighed the weary producer. And we trudged off to our dressing rooms like naughty schoolchildren.


Two weeks ago, I was in Los Angeles and bumped into ArnoldSchwarzenegger and his wife Maria Shriver outside my favouriterestaurant at the Beverly Wilshire hotel. We chatted for a few minutes,and I remarked to a friend later that night how amazing it was thatthey’d managed to have such a successful 25-year marriage, given howbusy they’ve both been in two industries – politics and entertainment –not renowned for marital longevity.

Today they announced they’re splitting up.



While I was in London for the Royal Wedding, Isecretly interviewed Madeleine McCann’s parents, Kate and Gerry. It’s the first TV interview they’ve given to promote Kate’s book on theirdaughter, and it aired tonight on CNN.

I felt an increasing surge of intense sympathy (for Kate and Gerry McCann). The truth is that no parent is perfect when it comes to keeping their eye on the ball

I felt an increasing surge of intense sympathy (for Kate and Gerry McCann). The truth is that no parent is perfect when it comes to keeping their eye on the ball

I’ll admit to having hadmixed feelings about the couple. Not because I thought they hadanything to do with Madeleine’s disappearance, because I don’t. Butbecause, like most parents, I felt uneasy about the way they left threechildren under five years old on their own in a foreign holiday-resortvilla while they went out for dinner in a nearby restaurant withfriends.

I have to say, though, that seeing the horrific grief stilletched on Kate McCann’s face for myself, and hearing her and Gerry telltheir awful story of four years of desperate, fruitless searching forMadeleine, I felt an increasing surge of intense sympathy.

The truth is that no parent is perfect when it comes to keeping their eye on the ball.

Ican still remember vividly a day in the summer of 1999 when I wasattending a cricket match in the private grounds of a former boss ofmine in Oxfordshire.

As I sat in the open-sided marquee havinglunch, two of my sons – then aged seven and two – played with otherchildren a few yards outside.

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Every few minutes, I’d flick an eye towards them and check they were OK. It seemed like the safest scenario imaginable.

Then the two-year-old, Stanley, vanished.

For half an hour, I ran around those grounds with his mother in an increasingly desperate search.

To my horror, I discovered a small creek that I hadn’t noticed before, running around the back of the marquee.

I can picture now the security guards, walkie-talkies in hand, actually trawling the water. And I can remember my feelings as the clock ticked on by – horror, fear, nausea and an impending sense of utter doom.

Then, suddenly, he was found. Inside the marquee. Standing patiently by the bar waiting for someone to give him a Coke. He was so small that his head was lower than the tables, so he couldn’t be seen from any distance.

I ran towards him, plucked him up and ran out of the marquee in sheer, unbridled ecstasy. My nightmare was over.

The McCanns’ nightmare continues.

And my previously rather cynical heart goes out to them.