Whitney Houston only dies once

Ellie Slee

Name:Ellie Slee
Member of:
Title: Trends Blogger
Joined: Sept 2011
Occupation: Gallery assistant at the Tate
Ellie's Full Profile

In the early hours of Sunday morning, I had assumed my regular slot as relationship counsellor in a nightclub smoking area (I’m not the most reliable of therapists – I’m never in the same club two Sunday mornings running, so my patients, without the benefit of ongoing marital advice, often end up divorcing anyway) when my housemate Poppie, ever the unorthodox practice secretary, interrupted me mid-session with some completely alarming news.

Photo by Asterio Tecson

‘Er, Ellie,’ she muttered, ‘Don’t suppose you want to smash some perspective into this gimp do you?’

‘Shhh,’ I said quietly, ‘We’re just getting to the crux of the situation. Daddy issues.’

‘I’ll give you more than Daddy issues. Whitney Houston is dead,’ she stage whispered. Heads turned. I gasped.

‘Dead?’ I immediately ditched my client and her failing romance, and within moments, myself and Poppie began doing something genuinely important; attempting to orchestrate an enormous Whitney themed singalong.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, exactly, but some audience participation would have been nice. Alas, we were at Basing House, which specialises in the most anti-Whitney (read: worst) type of music imaginable: repetitive electronic dance music. People were staring at us like we were mental. And maybe we were. With GRIEF.

When I was growing up, Whitney Houston opened my eyes to more things than all of the teachers at Durham Johnston Comprehensive School put together. Because of Whitney I no longer have to ask the question, ‘how will I know if he really loves me?’ (knowing, of course, that the answer is ‘don’t trust your feelings’); that things can be not right, but, at the same time, they can be OK; and that dancing can sometimes produce so much friction that it’s possible to feel the HEAT with somebody. She also taught me that marrying men whose first and last names start with the same letter is a bad plan. As is crack. In short, without Whitney, my life could have taken a totally different trajectory.

We left Basing House at about two, having found the only other Whitney mourners in the place, two girls named Jo and Jade who happily joined us at our friends’ afterparty, a shared love of five-octave spanning power ballads clearly a strong foundation for friendship. Luckily, our friends had shelved the minimal house music in favour of something more topical, and we danced the night away to I Will Always Love You, drinking something close to a shot for every year of Whitney’s life.

On our way home the next day, we were given wide berth on the bus, partly because we stank of sick and gin but also because it is rude to stare at people who are racked with grief. When we got home, Poppie started making a feast in honour of Whitney, featuring Yorkshire puddings (not entirely sure if she ever tried Yorkshire puddings, but I know she’d have LOVED them), the specially renamed ‘Clouds Above Cauliflower Cheese’, and roast potatoes (because they’re like crack to us). We then sat and watched an array of Whitney themed Youtube tributes. I started crying mid-mouthful of Clouds Above Cauliflower Cheese as her dulcet tones pronounced the line that gave it its name. I proceeded to cry through her entire back catalogue, showing Poppie my goosebumps at regular intervals. ‘It’s the way she says ‘you’,’ Pop murmured, as Whitney soared through I Have Nothing. There wasn’t a dry eye in the (two bedroomed) house.

I understand that at the beginning of my residency here at Opinion Panel, I pledged to provide you with ideas of how to turn your life around through the medium of cost efficient, student accessible culture. I also understand that it sounds like all I’ve done of late is drink gin and cry about Whitney Houston. That’s because… that is all I’ve done of late. But I think of it as research. And I will now relay my findings to you.

• Everyone has loved at least one Whitney song in their lives. If they say they haven’t, then they’re either deaf or lying. I know this because I took oral testimonies from at least three and a half people on Sunday morning between the hours of 4 and 5am, and the vast majority of those interviewed loved Whitney a LOT.
• In light of this recent groundbreaking research, I conducted in depth analysis into the grieving behaviour of long-tailed blue bummed rock monkeys of Northern Mongolia, who share 97.8% of their DNA with humans. When the specially elected town crier of the long tailed blue bummed rock monkeys of Northern Mongolia dies, it is customary for the monkeys to spend at least two days attempting to perfect his or her high notes and watching videos of him or her on Youtube. Essentially, these tribal behavioural traits are mirrored almost exactly when the voice of a human generation dies.
• Therefore, if you are to truly overcome the loss of one of the Greats, particularly one whose voice was called The Voice, with a The and a capital V, it is imperative that you follow the example of our simian friends. Lock yourselves away this weekend, and become a part of Whitney’s worldwide wake. All you need is your voice and the greatest hits – because they really are the greatest – and the rest will unfold with the evening. The recipe for Clouds Above Cauliflower Cheese is available on request.

I strongly advise that you follow the above steps sooner rather than later. After all, it’s not every day the voice of a generation dies… although recently, the toll has been increasing almost monthly. Legends Amy Winehouse, Etta James and Whitney Houston within a year of one another? I’m sure they’ve formed a killer girlband in heaven, but you can’t help wondering – who’s next? Madonna? I have a feeling she’ll outlast us all, and perhaps survive nuclear war and the next ice age, but I would love to be at her worldwide wake; she’s had more hits than Google and I hear Like A Virgin Lasagne is to die for.