On the morning of my civil partnership ceremony with David Furnish, my partner of ten years, we woke up to a beautiful winter’s day, sunny and crisp. There was a sort of magical, Christmas morning atmosphere in the house, amid all the bustle.
When it was announced that, at the end of 2005, it would become legal for same-sex couples to enter into civil partnerships, David and I had decided we wanted to be first in line.
The first day we could legally become civil partners was December 21.
There was a lot to do. We were having a big party at our house, Woodside, in Old Windsor, that evening, with three marquees, but the ceremony itself was to be held at the Guildhall in Windsor, the same place Prince Charles married Camilla Parker Bowles.
That was going to be a private, intimate event: just me and David, Mum and my stepfather Derf, David’s parents, our dog Arthur and four friends.
Sir Elton and his mother Sheila in 2003
The night before, we had watched the TV news about the first civil partnerships to take place in Northern Ireland — there was a shorter registration period there — and how the couples had faced protests outside their ceremonies, people throwing flour bombs and eggs. I was genuinely worried — if that was what was happening to everyday people, what kind of reception would a really famous gay couple get?
David assured me everything would be OK: the police had set up an area for protesters where they couldn’t ruin the day.
But now, the news from Windsor was that there were crowds lining the streets and a party atmosphere. No one wanted to attack us: instead, people had turned up with banners and cakes and presents.
I’d been married before, of course, but this was different. I was truly being myself, being allowed to express my love for another man in a way that would have seemed beyond comprehension when I first realised I was gay. I was as happy as I could ever remember being.
And that was the moment my mother turned up, in character as a raving sociopath.
The first sign of something wrong was when she arrived at Woodside with Derf and wouldn’t get out of the car.
So happy: Elton and David on their wedding day
Despite various entreaties to come into the house, they just sat there, stony-faced.
Then Mum announced she wouldn’t be joining the convoy of cars setting off for Windsor, nor would she be coming to the private lunch afterwards. And with that, she and Derf suddenly drove off. Oh, great. The most important day of my life and one of Mum’s moods appeared to be upon us, the ones I’d lived in terror of when I was young.
I’d inherited some of her capacity to sulk myself. The difference was that I snapped out of it quickly: I’d realise what I was doing — ‘S**t, I’m not just behaving like an idiot, I’m behaving like my mother’ — and rush around issuing desperate apologies to everyone concerned.
Mum never snapped out of it, never seemed contrite, never appeared to think she was behaving badly. The best you could hope for was a terrible argument — in which she had to have the last word — followed by a shaky truce that lasted until she went off again.
As the years passed, she’d elevated sulking to an epic, awesome level. She was the Cecil B. DeMille of bad moods, the Tolstoy of taking a huff.
Don’t go breaking my heart: Elton and his mother, Sheila
I’m exaggerating only slightly. We’re talking about a woman who didn’t speak to her own sister for ten years as a result of an argument over whether Auntie Win had put skimmed milk in her tea or not. A woman who once fell out with me and one of Derf’s sons from his first marriage — and, as a result, emigrated to Menorca in the Eighties.
That was Mum: she would literally leave the country rather than back down or apologise. There’s not an enormous amount of point in trying to reason with someone like that.
I watched her car disappear down the drive and found myself wishing she was in Menorca now. Or on the moon. Anywhere but heading to my civil partnership ceremony, which I had a terrible feeling she was going to try her best to stink up.
She didn’t — couldn’t — spoil the day, of course. But, in fairness to Mum, she absolutely gave it her best shot.
When David and I exchanged our vows, she started talking, very loudly, over the top of us: rattling on about how she didn’t like the venue and couldn’t imagine getting married in a place like this.
When the time came for the witnesses to sign the licence, she signed her name, snapped: ‘It’s done, then,’ slammed the pen down and stormed off.
It was bizarre; my mood kept switching from complete euphoria to wild panic at what she was going to do next.
I knew from experience that trying to talk to her would just end up in a huge row that could quite easily take place in front of 600 guests or the world’s media.
I wasn’t keen on the coverage of our civil partnership featuring an interlude in which Elton John and his mother entertained the nation by screaming at each other on the steps of Windsor Guildhall.
Tension: Sheila with Elton as a toddler
At the party in the evening, she tutted and groaned and rolled her eyes during the speeches.
She complained about the seating arrangements: apparently, she wasn’t close enough to me and David — ‘You might as well have stuck me in Siberia’ — although it was hard to see how she could have been any closer without sitting in our laps.
As the evening wore on, I could see a steady stream of people going to speak to her, then coming away quickly, wearing extremely long faces.
She was vile to everyone. [The art dealer] Jay Jopling made the fatal mistake of saying to her: ‘Isn’t this a lovely day?’ which apparently counted as merciless provocation.
‘I’m glad you f***ing well think so,’ snapped Mum in response.
At one point, Sharon Osbourne sidled up to me. ‘I know she’s your mother,’ she muttered, ‘but I want to kill her.’
I didn’t find out what had provoked all this until much later. It turned out that David’s parents, who are Canadian, had known what the problem was all along, but hadn’t wanted to upset us.
They’d rung Mum as soon as they arrived in the UK. They always got on well with her and Derf. They’d even been on holidays together.
My mother told them they all had to work together to stop the civil partnership going ahead. She didn’t approve of two men ‘getting married’, as she put it.
Everyone she’d spoken to was horrified by the very idea. It was going to hurt my career.
David’s mum told her she was nuts, that their kids were doing something amazing and she should support them.
My mother put the phone down on her.
She repeated the same line to me a couple of years later, in the middle of a blazing row. It didn’t make sense. Mum had always been incredibly hard work, but she had never been homophobic.
She was supportive when I told her I was gay and she’d been unflappable when the Press cornered her after I came out in Rolling Stone magazine, telling them she thought I was brave and didn’t care if I was gay or straight.
Why would she suddenly decide she had a problem with my sexuality 30 years later?
As ever, I think the real problem was that she hated anyone being closer to me than she was.
She had always been cold towards my boyfriends, but this was on a different level.
She knew my boyfriends were never going to turn into a long-term relationship: I was too erratic because of all the cocaine I was taking back then.
She knew my first marriage wouldn’t last because I was gay. But now I was sober and settled with a man I was deeply in love with. I’d found a life partner, and the civil partnership underlined that.
She couldn’t cope with the thought of the umbilical cord finally being cut and she didn’t care about anything else, including the fact that I was finally happy.
Elton Uncensored: ‘Day I brought Rod Stewart’s deflated ego crashing down to earth’
For a man with a well-documented, lifelong obsession with leggy blondes, Rod Stewart has a surprisingly camp sense of humour. I just adore him.
In the Seventies, he happily joined in when we gave ourselves drag names: I was Sharon, my manager John Reid was Beryl and Rod was Phyllis.
Then, when the Press started speculating about my hair falling out, he sent me one of those helmet-shaped hairdryers that old women used to sit under in salons. Keen to reciprocate his thoughtfulness, I sent him a Zimmer frame covered in fairy lights.
Even today, if Rod’s got an album out that’s selling better than mine, I know it’s only a matter of time before he emails me: ‘Hello, Sharon, just writing to say I’m sorry that your record’s not even in the Top 100, dear. What a pity when mine’s doing so well. Love, Phyllis.’
Pals: Elton and Rod Stewart in 1978
This kind of thing reached a peak in the Eighties. Rod was playing Earls Court, and the promoters advertised the gig by flying a blimp with his face on it over the venue.
I was staying in London and could see it from my hotel room. It was too good an opportunity to miss. So I called my management, who hired someone to shoot it down: apparently it landed on top of a double-decker bus and was last seen heading towards Putney.
An hour later, the phone went. It was Rod, spluttering: ‘Where’s my f***ing balloon gone? It was you, wasn’t it? You cow! You bitch!’ A year later, when I was playing Olympia, the promoters hung a huge banner across the street. It was mysteriously cut down immediately after it was put up.
I learned this had happened from Rod, who seemed curiously well-informed. ‘Such a shame about your banner, love. I heard it wasn’t even up five minutes. I bet you didn’t even get to see it.’
After I came out of rehab, I didn’t appear on stage for 18 months. But I made an exception for Rod’s gig at Wembley Arena. I unexpectedly turned up on stage in full drag, then sat on his lap while he tried to sing You’re In My Heart.
I’d been told I shouldn’t do any work, I should concentrate on getting well. But spoiling things for Rod has never felt like work, more a thoroughly enjoyable hobby.
Elton Uncensored: ‘You care more about that f***ing thing you married than your own mother’
Every time David had mentioned the idea of starting a family, I had presented him with a list of objections so long it just wore him into submission.
I didn’t want kids. I was too old. Too set in my ways. Too absent — always off on tour. Too keen on porcelain and photographs and modern art, none of which responds well to being knocked over or drawn on with crayon or smeared with Marmite.
But, really, my own childhood was at the root of every objection.
Bringing up children was an incredible challenge, and I knew from personal experience how awful it was if you f***ed that challenge up. I couldn’t live with the thought of making my own children as miserable as I’d been.
Then everything changed. It started with a visit to a Ukrainian orphanage: I felt an immediate connection to a little boy called Lev. David and I tried without success to adopt both him and his brother — but my paternal feelings didn’t fade. I now wanted kids as much as David did.
Zachary was born on Christmas Day 2010; his brother Elijah on January 11, 2013. We used the same surrogate and egg donor for both.
If you’d tried telling the Elton John of the Seventies or Eighties that he could find more fulfilment on a deep and profound level in changing a nappy than in writing a song or playing a gig, you’d probably have had to exit the room at high speed immediately afterwards, with crockery flying past your ears.
But I loved everything about being a dad. I even found the toddler tantrums weirdly charming. ‘You think you’re being difficult, my little sausage? Have I ever told you about the time I drank eight vodka martinis, took all my clothes off in front of a film crew and then broke my manager’s nose?’
The only person who didn’t seem delighted for us was my mother.
Since our civil partnership ceremony, something about her had definitely changed, or at least been amplified. She seemed to go out of her way to tell me how much she hated whatever I was doing.
If I made a new album, it was a load of rubbish: why didn’t I try to be more like Robbie Williams? If I bought a new painting, it was bleedin’ ugly and she could have painted something better herself. If I played a charity gig, it was the most boring thing she’d ever sat through, the evening only saved from complete disaster by someone else’s performance, which had stolen the show.
For variety, she threw in occasional thunderclaps of real anger. I never knew when they were coming or what was going to provoke them. Spending time with her was like inviting an unexploded bomb to lunch or on holiday: I was always on edge, just like I had been when I was a kid. The result was exactly what you’d expect: I started actively avoiding her. By the time Zachary was born, we weren’t speaking at all. A tabloid journalist — looking for a scoop about the callously abandoned grandmother — asked her how she felt about not seeing her first grandchild. She told him she wasn’t bothered and that she’d never liked children.
It was hurtful, but I couldn’t stop laughing when I read that: no points for winning yourself sympathy, Mum, but ten out of ten for honesty.
The final row was over my PA, Bob Halley. We’d been together since the Seventies, but the relationship had become strained.
Bob enjoyed a very lavish lifestyle by proxy, and didn’t like it at all when my new management team tried to make my tours more cost-efficient. The flashpoint was an argument over which car service we should use.
The management had brought in a more competitive company. Bob had got rid of them and employed a more expensive one. The management office overruled him, and Bob was furious.
We had a big argument about it. He said he’d been undermined; I said we were just trying to save money. He told me he was quitting his job, and I lost my temper and said that was fine with me.
Later, after I’d calmed down, I went back to speak to him again. This time, he told me that he hated everyone on my management team. I didn’t really know what to say to that: your entire team or your PA? It’s not exactly the toughest choice in the world.
Bob stormed out, adding, as he left, that my career would be over in six months without him. Whatever skills Bob had, clairvoyance clearly wasn’t among them. The only change in my career after he quit was that the bills for touring expenses got noticeably smaller.
Mum was absolutely livid when she heard Bob had left — they’d always got on well. She didn’t want to hear my version of events, and told me that Bob had been more of a son to her than I’d ever been.
And that’s when she said it: ‘You care more about that f***ing thing you married than your own mother.’
We didn’t speak again for seven years after that phone call. There comes a point when you realise you’re just banging your head against a brick wall: no matter how many times you do it, you’re never going to break through, you’re just going to end up with a constant headache.
I still made sure she was looked after financially. When she said she wanted to move to Worthing, I bought her a new house. I paid for everything; made sure she had the best care when she needed a hip operation. She auctioned every gift I’d ever given her — everything from jewellery to platinum discs I’d had specially inscribed with her name — though she didn’t need money. She told the papers she was downsizing, but it was just another way of telling me to f*** off — like hiring an Elton John tribute act for her 90th birthday party.
I ended up buying back some of the jewellery myself, stuff that had sentimental value to me, even if it no longer had for Mum.
It was sad, but I didn’t want her in my life any more. I didn’t invite her to the ceremony when the law on gay partnerships changed again, and David and I got married in 2014.
But I got back in touch when I found out she was seriously ill, and sent her some photos of the kids. ‘You’ve got your hands full,’ was the only mention of them in her reply.
I invited her to lunch. She walked into Woodside and the first thing she said was: ‘I’d forgotten how small this place is.’
I was determined not to rise to the bait. Instead, I asked if she wanted to see the kids, who were playing upstairs. She said no.
I told her that I didn’t want to talk about Bob Halley, that I just wanted to tell her, after all we’d been through, that I loved her.
‘I love you, too,’ she said. ‘But I don’t like you at all.’
After that, we’d talk on the phone occasionally. I never asked what she thought of anything I’d done, and, if I mentioned the kids, she always changed the subject.
I managed to get her and Auntie Win talking again, so that was something. No luck building bridges between her and Uncle Reg, though. I can’t even remember what that argument had been about, but they still weren’t talking when she died in December 2017.
I was incredibly upset by Mum’s death. I’d gone down to Worthing to see her the week before — I knew she was terminally ill, but she hadn’t seemed at death’s door that afternoon.
She never was one of life’s tactile, nurturing mothers, and there was a mean streak to her that went beyond just being prone to bad moods, something I didn’t like to think about too deeply because it frightened me.
And yet there’d been times when she was supportive, times at the start of my career when she was really good fun: at first, my success seemed to change her, make her happier than she’d been when I was a kid.
That’s how people who knew her in the early Seventies remembered her after she died: ‘Oh, your mum was such a laugh.’ We held a private funeral in the chapel at Woodside: I wanted to remember the good things, with just relations around me. I talked about her at the service and I cried.
I missed the person I was describing terribly, but I’d started missing her decades before she died; she just seemed to vanish as quickly and unexpectedly as she’d turned up.
At the end, her coffin was taken away in a hearse. We all stood there, watching it go down the long drive, in silence.
It was broken by my Uncle Reg, addressing his sister for the last time. ‘You can’t answer anyone back now, can you, Sheila?’ he muttered.
Elton Uncensored: ‘I blamed myself for my parents’ toxic marriage’
When I think of Fifties Britain, I think of sitting on the stairs of our council house, listening to Uncle Reg trying to talk Mum out of getting divorced from my dad: ‘You can’t! What will people think?’
The truth is that Stanley and Sheila Dwight should never have got married. They just didn’t get on. They were both stubborn and short-tempered, two delightful characteristics that it’s been my huge good fortune to inherit.
The rows at home were endless. At least they subsided when my dad, who was in the RAF, was posted abroad. If I was marginally less terrified of him than I was of my mother, it was only because he wasn’t around as much.
When she was happy, Mum could be warm and charming and vivacious, but she always seemed to be looking for a reason not to be happy, always seemed to be in search of a fight.
Uncle Reg famously said she could start an argument in an empty room.
She thought there was nothing wrong with children that couldn’t be cured by thumping the living daylights out of them — petrifying and humiliating when it happened in public.
There’s nothing like getting a hiding outside Pinner Sainsbury’s, in front of several visibly intrigued onlookers, for playing havoc with your self-esteem.
And, years later, I found out that when I was two, she’d toilet-trained me by hitting me with a wire brush until I bled if I didn’t use the potty.
I loved her — she was my mum — but I spent my childhood in a state of high alert, always trying to ensure I never did anything that might set her off. So I was incredibly insecure, scared of my own shadow.
On top of that, I thought I was somehow responsible for the state of my parents’ marriage because a lot of their rows were about how I was being brought up. It didn’t make me feel very good about myself, which manifested in a lack of confidence in my appearance.
For years, I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. I really hated what I saw: I was too fat, too short, my face just looked weird, my hair would never do what I wanted it to, including not prematurely falling out.
The other lasting effect was a fear of confrontation. That went on for decades. I stayed in bad personal and business relationships because I didn’t want to rock the boat.
My response, when things got too much, was always to run upstairs and lock the door, which is exactly what I did when my parents fought.