Stalking for Dummies
Email from my brother:
"Went to old Trafford yesterday or the arsenal game and saw james nesbitt twice! Once on the train, and once in the bog at half time. He was in front of me in the queue so I slapped him on the back and said 'Alright James! How you doing?' He said 'Alright, yeah good thanks'. I nearly said 'I loved your Irish Pilate' but thought better of it. Also, we went to a hotel bar by Manchester station to get a cab and Angela Griffin was checking out! Random."
Bastard. Why does he get to rub shoulders (almost literally, in this case) with
the rich and famous and come away with his dignity relatively intact, when the
best I've managed has been:
- Exchanging two words with Patricia Routledge, who would clearly rather not have spoken to me
- Nearly said hello to an exhausted-looking Neil Hannon
- Made a complete twat of myself with Bob Harris
- Made an even bigger twat of myself on 210 FM's breakfast show
- Fawned sycophantically over Willard Grant Conspiracy's Robert Fisher
- Had a semi-hushed conversation in an Oxfordshire pub trying to explain to my in-laws that the scruffy-looking people visible through the doorway were Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter, while trying not to stare at them
I get occasional emails read out on Radcliffe & Maconie, and I did get an
email from Jonathan Kellerman once, telling me about his dogs. And a couple
of years back we met Bill Drummond (who likes his tea served relatively weak),
with whom I managed to hold an intelligent (if brief) conversation about how
I liked him but didn't always understand him, an opinion with which he concurred.
He made a fuss of Joshua, who was still wide awake at midnight, although I think
it was the singing that woke him up. Does Martyn Joseph count?
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