As he powers into his 80s, the photographer recalls shooting everyone from Kate Moss to Andy Warhol, shares his regrets over voting leave – and reveals how Gordon Brown pulled a fast one on him
You look knackered,” says David Bailey, greeting me at his studio. Its up a small mews and sprawls so casually across two floors that it still feels like the 60s inside. “Look at you,” he says. “Your buttons arent even done up right.” I look down at my jacket: that bit is true. But I tell him: “Im not tired!”
“I was watching you walking along the street,” he says. “I thought, That must be the journalist, she looks knackered.” The combination of acuity (he must be right: he is, after all, the one who makes a living with his eyes) and demonic overfamiliarity (by this point, we are holding hands; I have no idea who started it) is disarming. If this is his shtick, its working on me, totally and overwhelmingly. Or maybe he has a tailored shtick for everyone he meets.