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This is a question Celebrity Encounters III

I once stood next to Ian Beale out of EastEnders in the gents' toilets at the BBC. BEAT THAT. Tell us of celebrity encounters that went well, or meetings with the famous that ended up as a complete disaster. (And we'll take it as read you've just made up a "I got touched up by Jimmy Savile" story, OK?)

Suggested by Munsta

(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 13:19)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

When I was little I wrote a piece of fan mail to David Attenborough, saying how I wanted to be just like him and also providing a shit-quality snot-and-crayon drawing of a bonobo or something for him to enjoy.

Couple of weeks later having brekkie before school, I get a posh-looking piece of post, back when morning post was actually before 8am. My mum was curious; 7-year-old-girls don't get much post with embossed envelopes,and I was all like 'Prolly just David Attenborough.' She was like 'Nah, probably your Nan.'

I opened it at the breakfast table and it was indeed a hand-written-in-scrawly-old-man-writing letter from David Attenborough himself, thanking me for my correspondence, suggesting I go to university to study a biology related subject when I was older, and wishing me good luck in my future endeavors. LEGEND.

I think my mum was surprised to say the least (she didn't know I'd posted the fanmail in the first place) as I nonchalantly placed it in my schoolbag and proceeded with my Rice Krispies.

I'll try to scan the letter and get it on here if anyone's interested - I still have (and treasure) it and still want to be like David Attenborough. Not least because he makes the time to personally respond, by hand, on posh stationery, from his home address to young, slightly obnoxious, over-achieving children who just want to be among the beasts.
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 15:49, 25 replies)
I don't care who you are, fuck off
Pearoast: Around 1990, I was wrestling an enormous wheeled flight-case containing big boxes of electronic-make-music-loud stuff up a ramp onto a big stage in a field in Berkshire. On reaching the top, someone was stood blocking the ramp,with their back to me, and momentum was in charge of the proceedings. And that is how I came to bellow "Get out the fucking way you stupid fucking twat" at Mick Jagger. To his credit, he said "Sorry man" and got out of the fucking way
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 20:25, 4 replies)
"Can I buy you a pint?"
A friend of mine has a story about meeting Richard Harris in a pub and buying him a drink. It's a funny story and it's not mine to tell, but the thing I learned most from it is that rather than going up and gushing and being generally fanboyish to your heroes, if you want to say hallo then offering to buy them a drink by way of quiet thanks for their work/entertainment/heroism etc is usually appreciated.
Living as I do in central London, I sometimes run into famous people whilst out and about. Most are, of course, twats, but some are people whom I like and respect and who have entertained me enough over the years that I reckon I owe them a drink in return. So it is that several celebs including Dave Stewart, Ian Hislop, Dwight Schulz (another story I may tell, as it's one of my favourites) and John Cleese have had an unexpected drink bought for them by a cheerful stranger who didn't hang about. I reckon it's what I'd want people to do if I was famous.


He was standing outside the convention hall. He'd been surrounded all day by unwashed geeks who all wanted a piece of him and I figured that he probably didn't want disturbing. He was having a few quiet minutes and a cig to mellow out before going back in and so I hung back in a frenzy of indecision. I wanted to say hallo and offer him a drink, but he appeared so happy to be on his own for a bit.
This was someone whose work I'd been introduced to when I was seven years old. It was, at the time, a revelation and astonishingly his own work kept me entertained for the better part of twenty years until it was finally superceded. He'd been responsible for more late nights, more jokes, more laughter and probably more arguments than any other single influence in my entire life (Including booze. Maybe.). When I was small or even a teenager, every new product I saw with his name on it was a guaranteed doorway into other worlds.
In the end, I thought that the worse that could happen was that he'd say no, so I wandered nonchalantly over.
"'Scuse me?" I said. "Can I buy you a drink?"
This was plainly a line he hadn't heard yet and he looked at me, a little nonplussed.
"Why?", he asked.
"Because you've been entertaining me ever since I was seven, and I reckon I probably owe you one by way of a thank you."
He looked at me over his glasses. "No, you can't", he said. I started to turn away. "But I'll buy you one."

He was lovely. Friendly, avuncular, and obviously only too used to dealing with people like me who had a story or two to tell and a joke or an experience to share. He told me a few himself. It was great, and somewhere inside, my inner seven year old was dancing about with glee.

He died a couple of years later, which made me sad. But at least I got to say thank you and, in return, Gary Gygax bought me a pint.
(, Wed 11 Dec 2013, 13:34, 10 replies)
I saw
Mo Mowlam in St James's Park once. She's dead now. I also saw Robin Cook in St James's Park once. He's dead now. I'm still hoping to see George Osbourne.
(, Mon 9 Dec 2013, 14:29, Reply)
Doctor Poo
Around 10 years ago I was in the backstage area of the Ashton Court Festival in Bristol. We'd been hanging around in there for around 3 hours, swilling beer and regularly pissing in the conveniently located Portaloo as a consequence.

At approximately piss number 6 I stood up, ready to unleash more urine into the Tardis-like surroundings of the aforementioned portaloo (short for portable loo I guess) but noticed the convenience was occupied. I waited a minute or two, bobbing from side to side to ease the pressure on my swollen bladder when the current occupant completed his business and exited the lavvy. And who, you may be asking was that occupant? PAUL MCGANN. COMING OUT OF SOMETHING THAT LOOKED LIKE THE TARDIS.

We gave each other the cursory "man nod" and went about our respective business. I then had a minute long piss in a portaloo surrounded by the warm air of Paul McGanns turds.

So whenever I see Paul McGann on telly (including seeing his image on the end of the recent doctor who) I tediously remark "I've smelled his shit" And then recall the entire story I've just described,

It's one of my favourite stories
(, Sun 8 Dec 2013, 0:26, 9 replies)
My ex spotted someone from a band she used to listen to, at the Royal Exchange in Stourbridge, Sidled over and introduced herself,
OK, he said wearily, which one of them in here pointed me out?
I recognised you, she said- from the album sleeve in 1980 (about 15 years earlier).
Really? So you're a real fan? Can you sing the lyrics to (insert band's lesser known b-side tracks)?
She did.
Upon which he was mightily impressed and stayed chatting with her for about another hour- then took our address and later on posted us a free signed EP, neglecting to scrub off his home address in under the sticky label but luckily she's not a stalker.

What a nice chap. Now, I wouldn't expect many people to recognise Brian Tatler, or even to have heard of his band Diamondhead but when a young German semi-professional tennis player called Lars Ulrich hitch-hiked to London just to see their show, then realised he had no-where to stay afterwards, was taken in by Brian for a couple of weeks where he hung about with the band and then took himself back home, muchly impressed.

Young Lars would then go on to form a band called Metallica, who regularly cover 'Am I Evil?' by DH on stage and on albums and cite it as one of the greatest influences on the development of Thrash Metal.

Brian is one of the humblest rock guitarists in history and still hangs out in his hometown, and yet influenced with one riff one of the most widespread genres of rock in the world.
(, Wed 11 Dec 2013, 16:36, 4 replies)
Sir Patrick Moore was in the phone book.
I was writing an article for T3 magazine on 'the future of space travel' and in the early days of the internet (1997-8) I discovered that he was resident of Selsey. On the off-chance, got the most likely phone number from Directory Enquiries, turns out he did not go celeb-anonymous or ex-directory. Rang him up full of apologies and obsequiousness for the unauthorised approach and got the great man himself, recognisable by the reedy energetic chatter and mono-directional delivery.

At first the cranky old Emperor Penguin himself demurred to answer questions on the phone but relented and said 'send me the questions and I'll answer them when I have time'. In doing so he gave me his address with was trusting, to say the least- but I did so.

A week or so later I received a snail mail from the astronomer, the replies to my four questions cranked out on his famous 1908 Woodstock typewriter- good to his word.

What a scholar, what a gentleman.
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 18:12, 7 replies)
Afternoon tea and farts with Prince Charles
Well I don't usually rub shoulders with anyone of celebrity status however I had been formally invited to my grandads private knighthood ceremony with Prince Charles. Normally Prince Chudders doesn't get involved with this malarkey but he was a big fan of my grandad and wanted to give it to him personally especially as gramps was getting on a bit, they also wanted to give a big public event a swerve especially as he was a liability when put in a public setting. I wouldn't have dared put my grandad in a room with the Queen, he was toooo unpredictable.

So we arrive at St.James Palace all smart in my Asda smart price kiddie suit. Met an officer from the grenadier guards who gave us a the low down on royalty meeting protocol. "When his highness enters the room you will bow and address him as your royal highness"

We where ushered into a room that looked like it had all the props out of zulu adorning the walls, obviously some throw back to days of the empire. So we have me, my two brothers, mum and my grandad. Enter Prince Charles, my bum released a nervous fart. It was pungent. I'm sure he noticed as he was introduced and shook my hand. His face curled up to look at me as if i had just urinated on his crown.

So anyway tea is served and I'm drinking steaming hot tea out of some kind of fine china cup that's probably worth more than my entire action man collection. I'm shaking like an epileptic in a strobe lighting shop. The I hear in that famous prince chazza voice "so young man are you at school at the moment?" FUCKSOCKS he's talking to me. I wasn't prepared for this. "yes sir" My brain is running through a list of words not to use in this conversation. "Do you play any sports young man",

"Well I try and play rugby sir" I feel a rumbling, my rectum is becoming a pressurized vessel until it gives way and pppprrrrrrrtttttt Shit I've just farted within 3 foot or royalty again. This one was definitely audibly because I saw the grenadier guards officer stifle a giggle. Now Chudders face is visibly scrunching up and he looks hes just been told Harry isn't his. That's right, chew on my anus gas you bastard, part of me was proud and part of me was dying with shame.

My conversation ended pretty rapidly after that with him and i went to go and stuff my face with custard creams in shame. They took some press photos and that was that. Fun times. I don't get invited to meet royalty anymore.

Length: second fart was at least 3 seconds.
(, Sun 8 Dec 2013, 12:34, 2 replies)
We once had a slew of famous people come and record the amount of pubs in our local town.
They were celebrity inn counters.


(, Thu 12 Dec 2013, 10:57, 6 replies)
When I was little I wrote to Jim'll Fix It, asking to put on a blindfold & wank off an old perv in a track suit.
When I watched the show, it turned out I'd been milking a cow instead. Gutted!
(, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 12:26, Reply)
My old boss
and several of our mutual friends once spent the duration of a train journey from Bristol to Bath hurling drunken abuse at the only other occupant of the first class carriage, the crap writer and whore-shagging perjurer Jeffrey Archer.
(, Sat 7 Dec 2013, 13:07, Reply)
Who's is better?
My friend once spotted the singer Ian Brown on a plane. Ian had been on Top of the Pops earlier that month singing "My Star" and one of his band was playing a box of eggs instead of a keyboard, proceeding to crack a couple during the performance. My friend didn't understand the significance of eggs to the song (they also appear in the video I'm told) so he went up to Ian, told him he was a big fan then asked him "what was all that about on Top of the Pops with the eggs Ian?". Apparently Ian coolly replied "Eggs is eggs man". Not a hilarious punchline to story but it has become a saying between us and most people we know ever since and has proven to lift a mans spirits in times of despair.

But I myself once spotted a major star in the form of the former Children's BBC "Broom Cupboard" presenter, Andy Crane in my local Frankie & Bennys where I was eating with my family. I had really liked him in the 80's as I was the right age and my name is also Andy. Anyway, later in the evening I went to the toilet, stood at one of 2 urinals. I am always pleased when the gents is empty as my bladder is a bit slower than other blokes and it can all get a bit embarrassing. After a minute or two of failing to urinate, Andy Crane came and stood next to me. This made me more nervous and the "old chap" decided to stop trying to have a pee completely. Just at that moment Andy Crane began to pee in what seemed like a bombastic and cocky manner and before I could stop myself, I involuntarily looked down at "him". I looked back up to find Andy Crane, inches away from me, with his cock out and pissing like the Niagra falls just staring right at my face. Without expelling a drop, I zipped up and left.

A few years later I bravely tweeted Andy Crane about the incident to which he replied calling me a "creepy weirdo".

I think my story's better than the Ian Brown one.
(, Sat 7 Dec 2013, 0:59, Reply)
I have a friend who looks a bit like Derren Brown
I did a quick crap photoshop and e-mailed it to him:

He replied saying he'd printed it out and put it on his fridge.

I later bumped into him in the foyer after one of his shows, and had to ask if it was true - he said "Oh! That was you!" and that it was still there!
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 16:58, Reply)
stitch that Jimmy
I was at an Exploited gig. When the gig had finished Wattie was manning the merchandise stall, as I walked passed I shouted out "oi Whattie you sell out prick!" I was trying to as anarchistic as you can be when you are 17.

He leapt across the table grabbed me and headbutted me really fucking hard without a word, then went back to selling t shirts
(, Wed 11 Dec 2013, 16:05, Reply)
My mate cut through the electric line to Engelbert Humperdinck's house when he was working on the road outside.

(, Tue 10 Dec 2013, 18:58, 3 replies)
Iain M Banks
Sadly missed, for some reason always came on book tours around my birthday. So I have a collection of first edition hardbacks signed:
"Happy Birthday!"
"Happy Birthday! (again?)"
"Happy Birthday!! (AGAIN?!)

Had a beer with him once too. Lovely, funny, clever fellow; died far too young.
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 20:56, Reply)
I was sat next to Richard Branson at the BMI lounge in Heathrow having quite a nice chat about things when some oik piped up "Oi Branson why don't you fly your own airline" to which he replid "Because they don't fly to where I want to go". Anyway, I digress. When I got to my destination.....

Celebrity Prick Gary Rhodes was contracted to cook for a bunch of us on a corporate day once and I arrived at about 10.30PM pretty tired after a days travelling. "What do you want, anything you like" says Rhodes. "Nothing ta, i'm tired and off to bed" says I. "Don't you know who I am", quips Rhodes. "Your employer has paid a lot of money for me to cook for you and I will do anything you like. I insist"

Trust me, his beans on toast is nothing special, despite the pretentious garnish (pronounced garnee I believe). Prick.
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 14:49, 4 replies)
Gatwick Airport, 1997.
About to board a plane for the first time ever (in my twenties), nerves and excitement are taking turns to dance on my bladder, making me need a piss every fifteen minutes.

I go for one last leak before getting on the plane and as I enter the gents, Terence Stamp exits a cubicle having dropped an aggressively pungent mud-baby.

We briefly make slightly awkward eye contact and I take my place at a urinal with the stench of acrid thesp-biscuit burning my nostrils.

Kneel before Chod!


Gibson Night of 100 Guitars, Wembley Arena 1994.

After a misunderstood hand gesture, Slash from G'n'R comes back onto the stage and before starting to play, points at me, gives me the 'wanker' gesture and flicks his cigarette at me.

Mr Slash, on the vanishingly small chance you read this and remember the event, I promise you my original hand gesture wasn't directed at you. However, having since read your autobiography, I think you're a proper cunt, so you can shove it up your toilet, you top-hat-wearing penis.

(, Thu 12 Dec 2013, 2:18, 5 replies)
I got touched up by Jimmy Saville.
But to be honest, I was just impressed that a man that age knew how to use Photoshop.
(, Wed 11 Dec 2013, 13:20, Reply)
The King of England
This summer, I was staying with friends at their place in France. We nipped into town one day, and, having stopped at a cafe, got chatting with a local whom my friends knew. I can't remember his name: let's call him Jaques.

As the conversation went on, Jaques spotted someone else he knew. Jaques waved a cheery greeting, which was returned with some friendly words.

We thought little of it.

"Take a look at that man," Jaques said to us. We did. He seemed to be a fairly unremarkable middle-aged man, out doing the shopping with his younger, North African boyfriend. "That man is the son of King Edward VIII".

We looked again.

There was a certain resemblance to the erstwhile King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Commonwealth, and Emperor of India.

It turns out that after Edward abdicated and moved to Paris, he put it about a bit, and got one of his staff pregnant. She moved (or was moved) to Midi-Pyrénées, where she raised her family.

He'd apparently tried to get recognition from the Royal family, albeit without any response - except from Prince Charles, who sent him a short letter wishing him all the best.
(, Tue 10 Dec 2013, 13:21, Reply)
The only worthwhile one I can think of is Dave Allen
I went to his one man show in the late 70's and got his autograph on a book match from the Hotel Piccadilly in Manchester. He smelt of fags and whisky, which wasn't a surprise.

They don't make celebrities like they used to.
(, Tue 10 Dec 2013, 11:52, Reply)
When I was in boy band 5ive I got my eyebrow pierced so I could impress the least ugly one in B*witched.
Then I fucked her in a threeway with Kelly from Deuce whilst Jim Corr stood in the corner and jerked off.
(, Tue 10 Dec 2013, 9:37, Reply)
Martha Lane Fox, Baroness Lane-Fox of Soho
It was a long Friday afternoon. I had three customer reports to finish and send out by the end of the day, and they were proving a struggle to complete.

As things would have it, the nation’s favourite technology czar, Martha Lane Fox, had called into my company for the day. She was collecting statistics for whatever her latest government programme was. To be honest, it sounded as boring as my job and she surely felt as under-employed in her role as I did in mine.

Well, as time was dragging by, she dropped by my desk. The office was deserted due to an earlier fire alarm, and there was only us.

“Hey Chut”

Shes aging a bit from the fresh faced posh totty of the nineties dotcom boom, but shes still got it in a distinguished mature way. I immediately gave her my most helpful smile.

“I need some… staples. Can you show me where they are?”

“Sure Martha, just this way”

So I lead her into our surprisingly spacious stationery cupboard.
She sidled in close to me as I reached up to the top shelf. I could feel her sweet breath in my ear.

“Christ, I’m bored of this life Chut. I’m 40 now, did you know that? Never married. No kids. I was the poster child of the dotcom boom. I could do anything. Then it all went tits up, and ever since the only job I’ve been able to do is to show old biddies how to use a mouse. They still shower me with plaudits, but what was it all really for? I’m bored in this gilded cage. “

She moved in close. Oh, she smelt good. Her hands weren’t reaching for the staples anymore.

“You’re like me. You could have done so much. But although you’ve got a way with the customers, all you are made to do is complete spreadsheets. Sometimes… I like to live dangerously.”

And then she was entwined around me. I tried to resist, but then gave in to her warm probing tongue. At first it was gentle, and then we made our embrace tighter.

And before I knew it, after a flurry of undressing, I had the Baroness Lane-Fox of Soho impaled on the end of my cock. She held around my hips and hissed into my ear :”Yess…”

We ground up the pace. She was becoming moister. The rolls of prit-stick started to fall over and roll off their shelves.

“Oh Chut, oh Chut, oh Chut…”

She powered up and down her impalement like a well oiled machine. The feel of her older flesh was magical. Her glorious blond hair flowed freely like the balls of postal twine that were being banged around their shelves.

“Oh Martha! Oh Martha!” I yelled as I neared my final release of digital inclusion.

And… well, I can dream. It’s a slow Friday afternoon, and these customer reports aren’t going to write themselves.
(, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 16:03, 3 replies)
No names.
Early 2000s. Festival of Sydney. Sydney Opera House. Balmy evening. Corporate hospitality preview event for the 'beautiful people'. Nice event. I'm an ugly fucker and definitely not one of those folk.

I had been invited to that soiree with my (then) f'friend by a good mate of hers who was a PR hack for a major hotel in town.

It was a nice enough night with [brand name alcohol] flowing like God's beard. After all, it was free!

I saw a lady leaning on the railings, looking with a wistful eye at the Harbour Bridge. She appeared to be, well, just like who I really wanted to kiss that night: female, subtle curves, tastefully attired, slightly tipsy. Kiss, and nothing more. I wanted 'lost romance' and the fantasy of nothing more for my memory. A delicious dessert for the mind. I had been reading far too much Anais Nin.

I nudged of the guys in our group. He knew just about everyone and just about everything that those people wished that no one would or should remember. "Hey - her - over there - you know her?" He glanced her way. "Yep." "Single?" "Dunno." "Game?" "Fuck knows." "Introduce me?" "Pfft - do your own spade work." He shrugged and regained holding forth with his chums and admirers. Near enough.

Wandering over to her, as she pensively watched the harbour, sipping her drink noisily, I introduced myself. We had a chat about useless things and people we knew, and how some of those people were useless things too. After a while, she mentioned she needed to use the bathroom. I told her that I did too. We made a pact to go to the bathroom and reconvene and continue. We were enjoying one another's company away from the madding crowd and the falseness of these kinds of dos.

We walked, arm in arm, chatting.

The mens' room was nearer that in place than the ladies'. She decided to accompany me. "Impressively bold", I thought to myself as other men in the place did a double-take and left quickly.

I walked into a cubicle, in the hope of embarrassing her into leaving. She barged in and closed the door behind her and kept chatting while I peed. She Waited until I finished, shoved me out of the way and then hiked her dress up and relieved herself. We stayed there awhile. Smoked a shared cigarette. Things happened.

When we left, we went our separate ways, grinning at one another as we both tried to arrive back at the function by different entrances.

Friends asked me where I had been gone for so long. I mentioned to that trusted, wiser and much wearier friend "with her", indicating that person. "Her? Don't you know who she is?"

"Ummm, no?"

"What rock do you live under? That's [name]!"


Her identity was explained to me. I earned the rank of farstucker, unwittingly. I also went for STD testing. Bullet dodged. That was my last dodgy shag in a bathroom at a function with a random.

She is still on telly from time to time, and I still smile a secret smile when I see her face, covered in makeup. It was covered in something else last time I saw her...

I need to eat some lemons for breakfast...
(, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 12:48, 16 replies)
OOh, I can do this one good because I'm a button pushy telly man.
Steven Baldwin took a shit in the cubicle next to me and didn't wash his hands.

I walked by someone who looked like a right poser, and commented "who's that nob end think he is?". The reply came back "that nob end thinks he's David Ginola because he is"

Richard Harris told me to take my glasses off on the set of Gladiator where I was an extra (despite being too short and skinny to be a soldier)

Ian Wright went to the studio door and stuck his arse out of it. A passing security guy saw him and exclaimed "LEGEND!", only to receive a blast of warm footbally fart in reply.
(, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 11:27, 2 replies)
I once met Nelson Mandela and asked for his autograph.
He was kind enough to oblige, and it's one of my proudest possessions - although I don't know why he signed it "Morgan Freeman".
(, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 9:56, 1 reply)
Another Attenborough story
Following on from Dancebiscuits post.

David Attenborough wrote out the whole of my best man's speech and left a personal message wishing my wife and I a long, and successful marriage and that "I hope you mate for life".

He was going to do the voice over for the video my best man had put together but he was filming in Madagascar.

My wife broke down in tears when my best man gave us the framed script.

This would also qualify under 'best present ever' in a future qotw.
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 17:36, 2 replies)
I once watched a colleague process an insurance renewal for Edwina Currie

(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 16:46, 10 replies)
Prince Edward
A friend of mine was at Jesus College Cambridge, I was at a Polytechnic in London but used to go and stay with my mate because he had a better social life than I did. My mate was captain of the rugby team that Prince Edward was in, and one week Eddy had been knocked out during a game and my mate had carried him off the pitch. The following week I went to stay with my mate, and we went to get something to eat in the college. I had a girlfriend at the time who had a cat that I hated, and I was telling an expletive-laden and wildly embellished story about how the filthy vile creature had shat diarrhoea on the duvet, and had then tried to bury it; flicking liquid cat shit all over the bedroom. I was aware of being poked in the ribs by my mate, and looking up from my meal found myself face to face with a slack-jawed prince, a slice of roast beef dripping with gravy hovering from his open mouth. He didn't appear to have the appetite to eat it.
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 16:11, Reply)
I met Bono out of U2 once.
He seemed nice enough. Kept talking about the band, and where the music was going, and what drove them and stuff.

I say "met", I mean "saw an interview on television with".
(, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 14:59, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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