Academic, author, and newspaper columnist John Sutherland “ghosted” this uncompromising account of his adopted son Jack’s descent into drug-addled, sex-addicted psychosis (while working as a chauffeur/personal assistant/bodyguard to Hollywood celebrities) and, after reading it, you can understand why the process made him “like Jack a little less and love him as much as ever”.
The book kicks off with Jack being fired as a PA, and dubbed “the biggest fuck-up I’ve ever met” by actor Mickey Rourke (“from him, a compliment of a kind”, notes Jack drolly). This book is an account of how he ended up there, with occasional wry comments from his father in the footnotes.
Jack’s upbringing was blighted by his father’s self-documented alcoholism (though he sobered up when the family moved to California). At school in South Pasadena, Jack was already suicidal and rebellious (he would later be diagnosed as bipolar and obsessive-compulsive, with ADHD), taking and dealing drugs, and hanging out with a bad crowd (two of whom became murderers).
Part of Jack’s early self-hatred stemmed from loathing the fact that he was gay, which he relates with unflinching non-PC honesty. He was homophobic towards others (“my pathetic and cruel smokescreen”), and says that he still has “problems with some styles of gay”. Emerging from the first of many stints of rehab, he impressed as a film production company intern, and was taken on as PA to REM’s Michael Stipe. From there, a lifelong obsession with driving (“car horny”, as he puts it) led him to become successful in A-list car hire, bodyguarding and chauffeuring, at one point almost starting a limo franchise for his hero, Richard Branson.
As well as Stipe and Rourke, Jack collides with stars as diverse as RuPaul (his friend, who provides the foreword), Kiefer Sutherland, Britney Spears, Ryan Seacrest, Eminem, and many more. Despite all the names being dropped (crashing to the floor with no attempt at subtlety whatsoever), anyone hoping for dirt is going to be disappointed. There are details such as rappers being bad tippers (“The bling stops cold when they have to dip into their pockets for whitey at the wheel”) but, where actual clients are concerned, Jack focuses on their kindness and generosity, not to mention the patience some of them need, as he becomes hopelessly “chemsex”-addicted. Far from being a joke, he says that sex was the worst of his addictions, though crystal meth must be a close second: “If you want to know what you’ll look like in 20 years’ time, buy a mirror and three months’ supply of crystal.”
The ensuing downward spiral of mania and intoxication finds Jack literally having crystal meth for breakfast – at another low point, going on the run in Indonesia. Somehow he gets clean, finds true love, and starts a security/chauffeuring business in Britain. His CV appears (rather cheekily) at the end of the book, along with an outpouring of gratitude to rehab and NA meetings and the like that, while rather too long, is understandable in the circumstances.
What emerges is a diary of the damned – a valid and illuminating examination of the craziness and desperation pulsing “backstage”, as it were, in the world of modern celebrity. While John Sutherland may have found out more than he ever wanted to know (and then some!), he and his son have produced a new-style Hollywood Babylon, for those who know their stars, and love their cars.
Stars, Cars and Crystal Meth is published by Faber (£12.99). Click here to order a copy for £10.39
