Michael Barrymore is walking his beloved whippet Lara near his new home in Devon. It’s a rare picture of the man who was once a household name. He is perhaps a little thinner in the face now with, understandably, less hair than when he was in his pomp.
He moved into his two-bedroom bungalow in the market town of Kingsbridge, not far from Salcombe (‘Chelsea-on-Sea’), at the end of February this year.
It’s a timber-clad, beach-house style property in a detached Victorian house’s garden.
Barrymore is sleeping on a mattress on the floor at the moment because his bed – custom made in pink to match his sofa – does not arrive until June.
How do we know this and so much more besides? Answer: because, Barrymore, at the age of 73, has turned his life into something of a daily reality show on TikTok, where he has surprisingly gained a new young audience.
To some, this is a redemption story. To others, it is a distasteful reminder of Barrymore’s link to the death of a young man and an enduring injustice.
Either way, consider this: at the height of his fame in the 1980s and 1990s, when he was ITV‘s ‘Mr Saturday Night’ with his catchphrase ‘Awight’, his shows Strike It Lucky, My Kind Of People and Kids Say The Funniest Things, often drew up to 15million viewers.
Extraordinarily, his numbers on TikTok now match and sometimes dwarf those figures. One recent clip got more than 55million views, putting him in the same league as some K-pop groups – and, together with his 4.3million dedicated followers, this guarantees him a place in the ‘mega-influencer’ category of the video-sharing platform while earning him a mint. He even has a London PR man again.
Michael Barrymore walking his beloved whippet Lara near his new home in Devon
It’s an astonishing comeback given his spectacular fall from grace following the events at an infamous party at his Essex mansion 25 years ago last week.
Father-of-two Stuart Lubbock, 31, was found floating face down in the pool in the early hours of March 31, 2001, with cocaine and ecstasy in his bloodstream, and internal injuries consistent with a serious sexual assault, and died later in hospital.
Barrymore and two other guests were later arrested on suspicion of rape and murder before being released without charge.
Despite repeatedly, and vociferously, denying any involvement in the still-unsolved tragedy, his stellar career effectively ended that night, and he was cast into showbusiness wilderness.
There he remained for 25 years, at one point doing odd jobs in a garden centre and garage.
But now his walks with Lara, meals at a local deli, supermarket trips, recovery from hernia surgery and the secrets of his skincare regime (applying beef fat to his face), along with general clowning around have attracted the unlikeliest cult fanbase.
Barrymore has been effectively ‘uncancelled’ by Gen Z, who either don’t know about his past or believe he should be allowed to get on with his life.
His reinvention must be deeply upsetting for Lubbock’s family and friends – especially at this time.
An updated six-part podcast series about his final 12 hours titled His Name Was Stuart Lubbock was re-released last Tuesday to mark the 25th anniversary of his death.
Making a fresh appeal in one of the episodes, his ex-wife and mother of his two daughters, Sue Homan, said: ‘Stuart was sexually assaulted and murdered, and I believe that someone’s told somebody – at least one person.’
Stuart Lubbock, pictured with his former wife Sue Homan, was found floating face down in Barrymore’s pool in the early hours of March 31, 2001, with cocaine and ecstasy in his bloodstream
By the time police and paramedics arrived at Barrymore’s house that morning, the host had already left the scene. And at Lubbock’s inquest in 2002 – which ultimately ended with an open verdict – Barrymore invoked Rule 22 of the Coroner’s Court that states ‘no witness shall be obliged to answer any question tending to incriminate himself’.
‘Barrymore did take the stand but he said he was advised not to answer any questions by his lawyer and that is what he chose to do, not answer any of the questions about drugs, nothing at all,’ Homan recalled.
It was a mistake, Barrymore would later acknowledge, and it has meant he has never escaped the shadow cast by Lubbock’s death, at least in the eyes of everyone who loved him.
Who could have imagined back then that Barrymore’s reinvention would be as a star vlogger (video blogger) on social media all these years later?
Most days he ventures out, often with a younger male companion in tow who documents every aspect of his life in picturesque Kingsbridge on a smartphone.
Many independent shops are featured, including the Doggy Deli (a favourite of Lara), Mangetout (‘the Croque Monsieur is absolutely perfect, seriously good’) and Frankies, a creative craft shop on the high street, where owner Paula White says: ‘His arrival has been the talk of the town. My 80-year-old mum called me to say he’d moved in. All the kids seem to love him – they only know him from TikTok.’
His edited videos, and there are hundreds of them, are cleverly geared towards this demographic. Barrymore has adopted the vernacular and format of the genre with this in mind.
The title of his clips sometimes contain the letters ‘POV’ (meaning ‘point of view’ on planet TikTok) and acronyms such as ‘ootd’ (outfit of the day), ‘fr’ (for real) and ‘GRWM’ (get ready with me).
A 14-second snippet of Barrymore mimicking British rapper Central Cee by sporting a quarter-zip jumper and sipping a matcha green tea has been viewed 20million times.
One recent clip on TikTok got Barrymore more than 55million views, putting him in the same league as some K-pop groups and guarantees him a place in the ‘mega-influencer’ category of the video-sharing platform while earning him a mint
‘Grandpa how did u [sic] become a fan of CEE,’ asked one young fan, to which Barrymore replied: ‘We live in the same hood.’
Pop star Sabrina Carpenter, 26, is a fan. Barrymore’s most popular video is a 16-second parody of another social media hit known as brainrot, where he drops assorted objects, including a baking tray and scrabble board, on his head.
His clothes, by the way, would not look out of place on a teenager (that’s the point, perhaps) including a trademark hoodie and baggy trousers, such as the cords he wore on his walk with Lara.
His prodigious output is being monetised, of course. TikTok pays ‘creators’ roughly $0.4 (30p) to $1 (75p) per 1,000 views which works out at between $400 (£300) and $1,000 (£750) per million views. But videos have to be longer than a minute to qualify.
Many meet the threshold. But some last barely a few seconds and there are other criteria which limit the amount to be earned. So it is almost impossible to put an actual figure on his TikTok income. All that can be said with certainty is that his new career is affording him a more than comfortable lifestyle.
Parked on his driveway this week was a Porsche: not a £100,000-plus Porsche 911, admittedly, but a used £30,000 Porsche Macan. He might have struggled to afford such a luxury when he was down on his luck.
Barrymore’s bungalow, unassuming from the outside, is stylish and modern inside with a double-height, open-plan kitchen and sitting room with triple aspect windows and skylights as well as sliding doors opening to the decked garden.
He is also represented by Soho-based Keith Bishop PR, whose clients number celebrity chef Aldo Zilli and various TV personalities. How can his surge in popularity be explained?
‘A lot of Gen Z TikTokers have discovered clips from his chaotic, high-energy presenting style which feels almost surreal compared to today’s TV,’ said industry expert Lynn Carratt, director of E20 Communications.
‘His current TikTok success could bring in a considerable amount of money from content and collaborations,’ says Barrymore’s PR agent Keith Bishop
‘Those clips circulate because they’re funny, strange and very ‘memeable’. Once a few videos about him start trending, whether those are nostalgic clips, interviews of conspiracy-style explainers, the platform pushes more of the same. It creates a loop where users feel ‘everyone’ is talking about him, even if it’s just a spike in a niche corner of the app.
‘His current TikTok success could bring in a considerable amount of money from content and collaborations. He has had deals with Sports Direct [founder Mike Ashley has been represented by the same PR agency which now acts for Barrymore] and local businesses in Devon.’
There is one more thing to say about Barrymore’s TikTok videos. His output contains a running hidden joke which has, no doubt, increased his appeal among his young followers.
Barrymore is frequently seen buying industrial amounts of sweets and chocolate from Marks & Spencer, Aldi, Lidl and US confectionery shop Candy Logo – which he calls ‘munchie runs’.
The ‘munchies’ is slang for the intense hunger and craving for snacks commonly experienced after consuming cannabis.
Barrymore, once busted for cocaine possession, has told his fans on TikTok he was taking ‘only one J’ (a likely reference to a cannabis joint) to overcome stress. Drugs, remember, were consumed at the pool party. Another painful reminder that won’t be lost on the family of the man who died that night.
At the time, Barrymore, who had come out as gay in 1995, was divorced from his late wife Cheryl, who acted as his manager at the height of his fame. He was in a relationship with former Geordie drag queen Jonathan Kenney.
Seven others, all strangers, joined the couple at Barrymore’s £2million home in Roydon, after a night out at the Millennium nightclub in Harlow. Everyone who knew Stuart Lubbock, a supervisor at a meat factory, insisted he was avowedly heterosexual, and that he accepted an invitation to the party out of simple starstruck excitement.
Police initially thought he had drowned after drinking heavily and taking drugs. Only following a post mortem examination, when he was found to have sustained internal injuries, was a murder investigation launched.
Yet it took another six years for arrests to be made. One of the men arrested was Barrymore, then 49, the other was Kenney, 31, and the third was former binman and bouncer Justin Merritt, 26.They were never charged with any offence.
In 2022, The Sun newspaper tracked Merritt down to a barge in a remote creek off a canal in southern England, but he said he was ‘not interested’ in speaking about the death of Stuart Lubbock. And Kenney, the other key figure? He split up with Barrymore after the fatal party. He is said to have worked as a driving test examiner and coach driver, and is now living in Blackpool.
A man answering Kenney’s description at a shabby semi in the backstreets of the seaside town where he is listed denied it was him when approached by the Daily Mail, saying: ‘You have the wrong person… what is it in regard to? Something to do with Barrymore. Shut your gob.’
He then slammed the door shut. This is the wider narrative behind Barrymore’s TikTok persona.
‘TikTok thrives on unsolved mysteries and speculation,’ explained public relations specialist Ms Carratt. ‘That kind of content keeps resurfacing because people keep adding theories, reactions and breakdowns.’
Back in Roydon, in the exclusive road where Barrymore used to live, neighbours are less forgiving than the residents of his new home in Kingsbridge.
‘I feel so sorry for Terry [Lubbock’s father] who died without there being an outcome,’ said one. ‘I was in on the night of the tragedy, the paramedics knocked on my door because they couldn’t find Barrymore’s house.
‘My thoughts are with the Lubbock family, nothing else.’
On the updated podcast series about what happened that night, Essex Police reaffirmed its stance: ‘We have never given up on finding out exactly what happened to Stuart and will continue to act on any information to assist us in our pursuit of justice.’
On the 25th anniversary of the tragedy last week, Michael Barrymore filmed himself on the beach with Lara. ‘I love starting each day now with a beach walk,’ he said. Did he, one wonders, spare a thought for Stuart?
- ADDITIONAL reporting: Ben Endley and Isaac Crowson