Enzyme has reminded me...
I did my undergrad degree in Edinburgh. During the festival it's open season for celeb spotting and I fear I may be spending a while on this one.

One night I was drinking in the Pleasance Bar with some friends. It being my round, I wobbled across the cobbles towards the purveyors of finest bottled Japanese lager. I say wobbled, it was partly the drink talking and partly the fact that I had rather smashing platform sandals on. I should point out that I'm not a small girl. Indeed, wearing said footwear, all told I was probably round about the 6'3" mark.

As I make my way back from the bar, clutching my delicious hop based beverage, without warning, a man walks straight into me and stumbles back on the courtyard.

As I helped him up, I realised the issue was that he was very, very short. Essentially, the hapless fool had careered straight into my bosom and bounced back like a man diving head first into a tit trampoline.

The woman he was with glared at me, and hissed "Come ON, Ronnie..." which was when I worked out that the chap who had not 2 minutes hence had his head wedged between my norks was none other than Britain's premier anecdote-telling golf obsessed dwarf, Mr Ronnie Corbett.

I still shudder at the memory. Or should that be mammary?
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:32, 5 replies)

I saw Tom Cruise late at night in Soho
Shirt untucked, swaying down the street like a battle-damaged Spanish galleon, with a bottle of gin in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other. He was singing softly to himself.

As he luched past I enquired: “Are you a little drunk?”
( SpankyHanky, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:04, Reply)

Krankie Rage
I used to work in a chandlers in the Channel Islands, summer job. The Krankies were often customers. When I first served the dodgy older Krankie he said "Do I get a discount for being famous?" I didn't even think but the words "I don't know, who are you?" fell out of my mouth. He was really pissed off and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. Serves the twat right. Everyone else in the shop thought it was hilarious, which didn't help.
(grob, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:02, 6 replies)

Cowardice
David Cameron came into my office the other week to give us a pep talk (some people here handle the Conservative party advertising account) and I got the opportunity to talk to him. I'd been mulling over what I'd say to him, how witty and sarcastic I should be, and then emboldened by four free bottles of Beck's I spotted my chance.

As he came over I shook his hand and mumbled "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Cameron."

What? He's going to be the next PM, I don't want to make an enemy of him.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:56, 8 replies)

Fork handles?
I worked on a bar and failed to recognise Ronnie Barker when I served him.

Apologies for length. Still not as short as Ronnie Corbett, though.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:53, Reply)

The newspaper seller looked pleased to see me...
I was emerging from Pimlico station and was approaching the Evening Standard vendor by the exit. There was something unusual about the way he stood; he'd adopted that stance that people unconsciously adopt when they're in the presence of someone famous or admirable.

I'm not famous, and, though I am admirable, the chances of the vendor knowing that were, I had to admit, small.

The man next to whom I'd been sitting on the tube and who was walking out of the station at my shoulder stopped to buy a paper.
"Good morning, Mr Wenger," said the vendor.

Briefly, I considered pointing out that that's not my name. But then I realised he wasn't talking to me.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:52, Reply)

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
are so mediocre that their band name is horrendously apt...so when I ended up at Brixton Academy to watch them, under the influence of many, many beers, there was a bit of heckling. Karen O gave me the filthiest look ever when I shouted in between songs: "Play something good!"
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:49, Reply)

I was shopping for some Christmas gifts in H&M a couple of years back
Being a man, I took the most direct route - walked in, picked up the items I needed (hats and scarves, mostly) and marched them straight to the counter. No faffing, no trying stuff out, no waiting around unnecessarily, I was in a hurry so straight in, buy the stuff, straight out. Except when I got to the checkout, the till girl was distracted and ignored me, staring instead over my shoulder.

"It's Rachel Stevens!" she exclaimed. I turned around, and saw, yes, it was indeed Rachel Stevens. I went to hand the till girl my potential purchases, but by now she had started pulling off a length of till roll and was making a list of things Rachel might need, calling over other staff to go and attend to her. I coughed. She studiously ignored me.

"Hello, can I just-" I began.
"Stacey, can you go and get some bottled water for Rachel, and see if we've got any of those-"
"Excuse me!" I shouted. "Paying customer here! I may not be in fucking Steps*, but I'd like some service please!"

Suffice to say she got me out of there sharpish before Ms. Stevens got within earshot of my crude language. I couldn't care less if she's a sleb, it's the attitude that she needs more attention and free shit than the rest of us that pisses me off.

* Yeah, yeah, what-the-fuck-ever.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:42, Reply)

Mark Knopfler
Many, many, many years ago - when Dire Straits were still going, yet Knopfler had started touring with the Notting Hill-billies, me and a few mates went along to a local small concert venue to watch them.

One of my mates was THE, not just any, but THE biggest Dire Staits fan. He virtually ran their fan club, and had EVERYTHING they had every recorded - including bootlegged recordings of virtually all of their concerts - I mean obscure recordings from gigs in countries that most of us hadn't even heard of let alone able to spell.

So....of course, this meant that we had to hang around at the end of the Hillbillies concert just in case we might catch a glimps of the man Knopfler himself.

Sure enough, word gets to him that his biggest fan is hanging around outside and wants to say hello.

Mark walks out to meet us. He walks up to Alan (the biggest fan ever) shakes his hand and says hello. Alan, says, "I'm the chap who's virtually running the fan club."

To which, Mark replies, "So, you're the lanky streak of piss that's selling the bootlegs in the back pages of the magazine!??"

Luckily he was just fucking with him - it WAS him doing the selling, but Knopfler just seemed amused by it rather than anything else!
(dchurch bah, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:33, Reply)

I met Mickey mouse, Donald Duck and Pluto. I was wearing my Global Hypercolour t-shirt.
the pictures are fucking awesome and i have their autographs in safe keeping
( Victor Meldrew, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:23, 2 replies)

I got called a twat by Mark Lamarr
I thought he was Danny Wallace

they do look really similar
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:19, Reply)

Many moons ago
the company I was working for at the time held a joint Xmas party with lots of other companies at the Palace Hotel in Manchester. One of the companies in question was Granada TV so there was a managerie of local, sub z list faces there.

As an avid fan of The Krypton Factor (particularly the observation round), you can imagine my utter delight to see Gordon Burns there who had recently become (and still is) a newsreader for Northwest Tonight. With a few pints sloshing away inside me I approached him and shook his hand. Seemingly quite pleased to meet a fan he introduced me to Lady Burns and the weather girl from his news show. I then proceeded to tell him that I much prefered him in his Krypton Factor days and asked him if he'd had any interesting threesomes with his present company.

The look on his wifes face was precious!

It was also the first night I'd ever tried the demon weed and ended up tossing a lemon meringue pie over the dancefloor in true 3 Stooges style. I also had a walking wee down a corridor whilst lost.

Basically, I turned into a twat for the night because Xmas was round the corner.
(Elmintrude has lumps of it round the back, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:14, 1 reply)

Another mate of mine
Andy, used to live with Russell Brand during his early MTV skanky smack head phase. Apparently he's a very nice guy and they're still in touch. The crowning glory is that Andy's mentioned in his autobiography, lovingly described as a 'giant ginger cupboard of a man.'
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:08, Reply)

She was a goddesss!
Just remembered this one.

Holland and Barrett opened up a new health food store in Manchester, and Diana Moran was opening it.

I've always enjoyed a handful of seeds (fnnnarrrr!) every now and then, and thought I'd pop in to see what it was all about. There was only Diana, the Store Manageress and the girl on the till in the place. So, amongst the liquorice sticks and ginseng, Diana and I chatted about health foods and stuff, even touching on complementary medicine. I didn't know who she was, but she told me about her TV role as a TV celeb or whatever.

When I was leaving, I asked her for a kiss, as I'd never been kissed by a celebrity. She obliged and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

She wasn't wearing the skinsuit, or I could have said "Oh yes. I know you. I've cranked one off in front of the TV on many an early Friday morning after a late Thursday"

Here she is for young folks... The Green Goddess

newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/44347000/jpg/_44347358_greengoddess.jpg
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 12:00, 2 replies)

Was at a wedding with Father Dougal (The night of the longshits)
As Mrs Wogan's wig fixer is tenuously related to Ardal O'Hanlon we ended up at a wedding with him.
At one point I had to go drop the kids off at the pool and so made my way to the lavatories. Dougal went sauntering in ahead of me, I may have held the door for him (can't remember all the details, it was an Irish wedding and I was well on in my drinking), anyway long after I'd finished lying some pipe I was back sitting at the table which had a good view of the door to the toilets.
It must have taken him 20 minutes to leave said Jacksie.

So either Father Dougal has some serious urinary problems or a nasty gak habit. I didn't hear any snorting from the next cubicle anyway and he seems a bit too shy for a colombian sherbet dabber.


Have to say though, Lovely bloke. Salt o' the earth.
(WOGAN'S WIG FIXER, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:54, 2 replies)

...and the band played on...
I've played in a variety of bands over the years, the most successful being a funk band with 12 members (oooh errr!) at it's peak.

It was not unheard of for us to have 25-30 gigs in a month during the summer.

One year, we took a well earned break of a fortnight during the summer. Most of us buggered off on holiday, as did our singer.

Now, he was a nice bloke, but not completely full of brains. I believe it was Greece he went to, but I could be wrong. Anyway, one morning he decides it's a lovely morning for a swim and dives, head first into the hotel swimming pool.

...the very same pool that was drained during the night.

Yep. He dived into about 3 inches of water severely damaging his back and neck. Apparently, lots of moans and groans could be heard by other patrons of the same hotel, and a few come running to his aid.

One of which was a chap named Jim Moir - know affectionately to the nation as Vic Reeves. Somehow he managed to get him out of the swimming pool and into an ambulance that he'd called. He followed the ambulance to the hospital to see if our singer was ok. It was there that they discovered that they lived not that far from each other (and indeed most of us in the band) - just shy of 5 miles apart.

The became good friends, both for the remainder of the holiday and upon their return to the UK.

Quite regularly we would see Vic (and sometimes Bob) and partners at our gigs - sometimes Vic and his misses would have a steaming row, and sometimes they would not. It was as much entertainment for us, as it was for them watching us play.

One night Vic, misses, his brother (I assume - they looked almost identical and wore the same glasses, clothes etc...) and his bother's misses came to one of our smaller gigs in a local pub. Far from me to say, but a more trained eye might summise that they were coked up to the eyeballs and well on their way to being steaming pissed as well. Not a lot wrong with that, especially at one of our gigs - it was almost expected of you.

However, Vic decides that he ought to be singing, clearly being the 'celeb' in the pub and has a word with his mate, our singer. Of course we were not about to say no, in fact, we'd quite regularly have people out of the audience come up and sing with us - it was all part of our act.

For some sad reason, he asked if we would play the old classic (read: very tired) "Mustang Sally" - well, I suppose only a deaf, one-handed mute couldn't busk that one, so we all agreed, "Mustang" it was.

Just as we start playing a friend of mine, Pippa we shall call her, for that is her name, puts a pint up on the stage just in front of me with a thumbs up. I look round, there's already two lined up on my amp...bonus, I should be set until the end of the second set.

Vic starts singing, he does quite a decent job to be fair - big powerful voice and plenty of stomping - quite a show for the 30 or so people actually watching (I did say it was one of our smaller gigs right?), until the end of the song...we're all playing an elongated 'bruuuuuuuum.....ta da!" type ending, dragging it out while Vic is dancing with the mic stand, dropping to his knees singing "mustaaaaaa-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaannnnnggg", when he stands back up again, and on the very last note where we are about to end with a 'tada-bang' he throws the mic stand down.

Straight.through.my.new.pint.

I looked down at my pint. Now just a soaking, beer smelling carpet covered with broken glass. I may have even shed a small tear. I look up at Vic, our eyes meet; I glance back down at the remains of my drink. I see his eyes follow mine to the mess. I look back at him as if to say, "oi, you've smashed my pint", he looks back at me, shrugs and walks off.

A few months later, we'd been booked to play at his sisters wedding. I had a t-shirt made up (which broke with band tradition as we all wore the same get-up when we gigged), on the back were the words:

"Vic Reeves owes me a pint"

Sadly, it was a wasted gesture - the band split up due to 'personal issues' (i.e. a punch up between me and the bass player over his dreadful misses/manager deliberatly changing gig venues/times to suit her and her friends rather than honouring pre-booked gigs) just a few weeks before we were due to play at Vic's sisters wedding.

I still have the t-shirt. One day I may well wait outside the BBC with it on in the hope that he sees it, remembers the incident and decide to come good on the debt.

It may sound daft, but at coming up for 4 quid a pint it may be a worthwile trip before long!
(dchurch bah, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:54, 4 replies)

Wrong end of the stick...
My uncle and his mate, Julian, despite being mid forties, still have an eye for the women, and I often have to listen to them banging on about the various one night stands they’ve recently had, including the sordid details. Julian, is by far the worst; one of my personal favourite tales he’s told me, ends with the line , “So I just spunked on her big ginger carpet whilst she was asleep”, but I’ll save that for another time. Anyways, they had been to a Paul Weller gig in London, and after it had finished, decided to venture into a bar to carry on their nights entertainment.
As they queued for drinks, Julian recognised an actress off the TV, stood next to them, with her back to my uncle. It was someone from Eastenders (who I’m trying desperately to remember the name of, will edit once I get it), and Julian took the chance to strike up a conversation.

All was going well; Julian bought her a drink and they sat and chatted for a good 15 minutes whilst my uncle played gooseberry. Julian actually thought he was in – she was laughing at his jokes and ignoring the attention of several other people. He asked her if she was enjoying her role in Eastenders to which she replied,

“Yes, I love it, although I haven’t been in many scenes since I lost the baby”.

“I’m so, so sorry to hear that, please accept my condolences”, a very apologetic Julian whispered.

“In the program you idiot”, was said actresses reply, and with that, she left.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:54, Reply)

He used to be a Young One
I was stood outside the World’s End in Camden, chatting to a lass I hung around with at the time, who just happened to be Scouse as well. Both of us were on the verge of being unable to stand and were clinging onto a railing for support.

While we were chatting, I see a fat, bald bloke walking towards us. Immediately, my under the influence mind went “you know him, he’s famous, what [i]is[/i] his name?” Because I was well away, I started doing that “clicking your fingers, pointing and going ‘erm’” thing.

He spotted me doing this and made eye contact, giving a half smile when he realised I couldn’t remember who he was. As he drew level I shouted “Hey, aren’t you Benito Mussolini?”

This stopped him in his tracks and he laughed and said “you can’t remember my name, can you mate?”
I slurred, “Nope, when you were walking towards me, all I could think of was saying ‘who is that fat bastard?’, but remembered the Mussolini thing at the last minute”
He laughed again and said “you look too young to remember that, still can’t remember my name though, can you?”
I just said “No, but didn’t you kill my brother?”
He laughed once more and shook my hand and said “you have a good night, mate. Though you look like you’ve had a good one already”, and did what I can only describe as “leered” at my mate.

At about 5 the next morning, my friend poked me awake, muttered “Alexi Sale” and went back to sleep.

Seemed like a nice bloke. Remarkable lack of a Scouse accent though...
(ScousersPet, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:49, Reply)

While I've got the oven on
and appear to be roasting peas, have this one

I once mistook Johnny Vegas for a pile of coats at a party in Edinburgh. I chucked my jacket down and it wasn't until I head an "Oi!" then saw a hand clutching a pint of Guiness appear from under it that I realised...
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:45, 1 reply)

John "AWOOGA" Fashanu the chair leaning bastard
Just outside of our cunt-ry town Newport there is a sports complex, you can do all sorts of stuff there, and it also happens to be where alot of sports celebrities are sent to train or for physio.

There were a group of us that had decided to go prat about on the squash courts, and then after we headed to the bar for a coke..(I was about 13 at the time). To much delight of my football fanatic mate, there was John Fashanu and some of his mates sat having a drink.. "John who"? I said, as he had yet to reach 'SUPERSTARDOM' !! Anyway, I noticed, that if he leant any further back on his chair, he would go arse over tit..probably breaking the chair in the process..so I felt it my duty, that as we got up to leave, I walked past and slapped the back of the chair.. hehehehe

Cue..a desperate grabbing of the table, almost knocking all the pints over..and looking like a prize cunt in the process. I made a quick walk to the exit when I heard "YOUNG MAN" shouted in an authoritarian voice.. I turned round, stood in the doorway..looking back wth a 'It wasn't me' expression on my face. "WHATS YOUR NAME"? He demanded.
It was at this point..I thought, bollocks, I'm done for now..but the teenage rebel in me just blurted it out defiantly. "Adrian" I said, very matter of fact, trying not to burst out laughing.

"YOU WANT TO BE MORE CAREFUL IN FUTURE" he threatened.

Oh yes, very big of you Mr.Fashanu, threatening teenagers half your size. What a twunt. I left laughing my head off..striding out victorious, before getting initially chastised by my mates, then all rolling about with laughter.. hehehe good times!
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:38, Reply)

sadly not me
but my friend Seonad had her foot run over by Stephen Hawking in the Cambridge branch of John Lewis. Fucker didn't even say sorry.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:34, 2 replies)

My mate works as a tattooist in Camden
The amount of times he has attractive young women coming into his gaff saying: "I wanna look like Amy Winehouse!"

*shudders*

My mate's usual response is to pick up the tattoo gun, let it run for a second or two zziiiippp!! zziiiippp!!! and then say in his best Jedi voice: "These are not the needles you're looking for..."

Usually gets rid of them... and pissing off her fans is being rude to her (in the most insignificant way possible)...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:32, 1 reply)

Alfie Moon.
I used to coach his and Coleen Nolans son at Football. He once told me to sub his son off, I told him to keep his fucking mouth shut.

He apologised later. And so did I.

Thats all.

Blackpool does not have a massive array of Celebs.


However my Mother In Laws Cousin is Davy Jones from the 60's group The Monkees.
(hoogie Original Cunt Horse Author, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:22, Reply)

I'm currently fucking my way through the cast of Bugsy Malone...
apart from Tallulah, the minge-eating slutbag!
(likeajackhammer, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:18, Reply)

I handled George Best's DNA
By which I don't mean that I fondled his testicles.

No, it's much less exciting than that. I did a few weeks' placement in a lab that takes in and processes forensic DNA* samples. I was busy cutting open and filing a fresh batch of swabs one day when I noticed the name "George Best" on one of the packets. Caused a bit of a chuckle when I pointed it to my colleagues, though I suspect it wasn't actually the drunken footballer himself, but possibly some other member of the public with the same name. Oh well.

*_{"The love with which god created you" for any creationists. You can swab it from the inside of your cheek...}
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:17, Reply)

I think I've told this before but
A surefire way to not endear yourself to John Barnes is to sit next to him for 2 hours, on the London to Liverpool train, hungover to the back teeth, doing the rap from "World in Motion" under your breath, pausing only to laugh manically in his face before continuing.

As he pushed past me to go to the toilets, a bloke on the next table said, sotto voce,

"let himself go a bit, hasn't he?"

He has too, the fat knacker.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:10, 6 replies)

The knight and the night of shame
I’ve been deliberating whether to put this one on as it could get me – and a certain celebrity into a shitload of trouble... But - as the primary school teacher says to the nervous six year old schoolboy – if it doesn’t cause any long term physical damage or mental scarring, fuck it.

Back in my early twenties I was quite a keen amature photographer. I’d found a shitload of camera gear in the bottom of one of my dad’s drawers and decided to liberate it for the good of mankind. After a couple of failed attempts to get my then girlfriend to jiggle for me while stroking her twin purple puffy love slugs in much the same way that a Bond villian stokes a cat while I snapped away, I decided to branch out into a different kind of photography. I took up wildlife photography. Taking pictures of robins on gateposts, getting cows to smile, catching frolicking rabbits in midair on a crisp March morning (just before they ripped the shit out of each other with their bastard sharp teeth). Strangely, I was really fucking good at taking these photos. Some of my mates said I had a gift. But deep down inside I knew I was just a failed Readers Wives photographer. (Its harder than it seems operating a camera with one hand)...

So, with this new-found talent and egged on by my mates, I decided to enter an under 25’s wildlife photographer of the year competition that was being organised by the BBC. I chose a portfolio of ten of my best countryside-animal-related snaps, arranged them in althabetical order: badger through to water vole, packaged them up and sent them off. Then I promptly forgot all about it and got on with my life.

About three months later I received a call – I’d only gone and been fucking shortlisted for the big prize! It was the BBC, so we’re not talking enough cash to buy your own tropical island, but it was a fair bit. Enough for a deposit on a flat somewhere nice, somewhere where the potential girlfriends wern’t so prudish they would bitch and moan when you wanted to take sexy snaps of them fucking a root vegetable. Yes, I had plans to move to London...

Armed with a real sense of purpose, I boarded the train and fucked off away from the Midlands, heading for the big smoke. It was a real whirlwind occasion. I was met at the station by a BBC researcher and taken to a nice hotel. I was told I had four hours before the event started, I was given a list of rules: no smoking, be presentable, have a shave, under absolutely no circumstances get absolutely shitfaced and grab the girl who reads Newsrounds knockers. I had been told. I was on best behavior. I was absolutely shitting myself. Four hours went by quickly, suddenly I found myself at a black tie dinner event, loads of famous people there, with a handful of contestants mulling about looking out of their depth, standing round big blown up photos of their entries.

I’d been shortlisted for my snap of a heron sneezing. It was – blown up to FUCK OFF HUGE SCALE – absolutely fucking incredible. I felt confident. I felt like I was going to win. I felt a hand rest lightly on my shoulder: “That’s a very lovely photograph. Do you know which one of the entrants took it?” I turned, explaining it was my handywork, and I stopped, my breath caught in my throat. I’d already sort of recognised the voice, but now I was staring into the kindly eyes of a man I felt I knew only too well, a man I’d grown up watching on the box. The kindly man smiled again, held out his hand: “You can call me David,” he said, and I took his hand and shook it lightly, in a bit of a daze.

I replied: “Don’t most people call you Mr Attenborough?” (This was way before the knighthood).

He smiled again, chuckled softly: “Don’t be silly! I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Anyway, David and I get chatting. He seemed like a really nice, normal, down-to-earth fella. The night wore on and, eventually, they announced the winner. Not me. I didn’t come close. The kitch photo of the bouncing lamb won; I think the fact the photographer was a fit as fuck blonde twenty year old who was wearing a dress that made it look like she had a couple of postage stamps covering her ample boosom helped no end. I was pissed off. David, my new best mate, consoled me. He even suggested we go back to his big old town house near Regents Park – he said he had a snooker table and would show me his amazing collection, the one he’d gathered from the four corners of the globe on his travels. Of course, I agreed in a heartbeat.

After a tedious cab journey we reached David’s gaff. We went inside. It was an awsome house. All old oak and paintings of dead dudes on the wall. He even had a glass cabinet with a costume in it, a ragged old set of robes: “My brother Dickie gave me that – it’s what Ghandi wore in the movie.” I was impressed. David offered me a very large glass of brandy and walked me through the place, gave me the guided tour. And when we reached his collection I very nearly shat myself. It was a living collection. Row upon row of gilded cage containing all mannor of exotic and strange looking creature.

“This is incredible,” I said. “What’s this?” David explained, in his enthusiastic way, that I was looking at a very rare species of monkey from the great plains of the Sumintee Veldt. It was an ugly fucker – like a chimp, but not as hairy. I stared at it, it stared back. And then my head started to hurt. David, seeing I wasn’t doing too well, came and grabbed me. I was suddenly very dizzy. The brandy had gone straight to my head.

And this is where it gets a bit difficult to type... This is the awful bit... My secret shame...

I came awake late – not too sure when – my head was fuzzy. I think I must’ve been spiked. I was lying facedown on a big luxuorious bed, and... ... and ... I was being fucked rigorously up the arse. I started to moan, I heard David say: “Don’t worry, just relax,” as a hand stroked my hair. “It will all be over soon...” I started to whimper, I was being fucked hard, really fucking hard. The grunting, sweating weight on my back was pinning me down. I couldn’t quite believe what was happenening. And occasionally there was a bright FLASH ! The whole room flooded with intense light. Then again, FLASH !

Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, I felt this large gnarly cock twitch and spurt, spraying a liberal load of hot sticky goo up my colon and then I was free. FLASH ! I gathered up my cloths, still in a drug enduced haze, glanced round, took in the scene – the look on David’s face, the strange otherworldly look - and without a word I left. And I’ve never told anyone about this night until now.

The night David Attenborough took photos and watched as I was sodomised by his Sumintee Veldt monkey... that's the rudest thing I've ever done in front of a celebrity.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 10:55, 3 replies)

I met shit Welsh musician no1 Mal Pope once....
...apparently he's famous because he wrote and performed the theme to "Fireman Sam" and done some other random musicy stuff. Wow, fucking 'A' List material right there.

So I was working in a computer store one December and the Xmas "shopping like fuck" spirit was well and truly underway with the public. Our store would be quiet for the first half hour of opening then proceeded to have 8 hours of running around like a disabled chicken until the store closed. I can't really complain; used to be alot of fun (hell of alot more fun than this job now, gutted it all went pear-shaped).

Anyroads, in walks Mal Pope and his 2 kids. I'm busy helping other customers and as per I notice Mal asking his kids what they want and in fairness they were picking up a few things each. I passively think that it shouldn't be a bad sale as I get back to serving other customers. Eventually Mal and the boys reach the counter and plonk a load of PSX games on the counter. I put everything through the till as normal and fill up 2 bags, 1 for each kid and as I'm about to ask for the money one of the other workers in the store comes over and says "Hey Jeccy, that's Mal Pope there."
"Really?" I look at him as if I really didn't give a fuck, which funnily enough I didn't.
"That's £200 pounds please" I say in a dead tone.
Mal looked gutted and passes me his gold card, while looking completely rejected.

Fireman Sam? Whoop-de-fucking do.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 10:52, 1 reply)

Ricky Gervais
A few years back, when The Office was first airing on TV I think and Ricky Gervais was taking his first steps towards global fame, I was in the De Hems pub (aka 'the Dutch pub') off Shaftesbury Avenue. I bought the now wife a drink, and turning round towards the bar, saw the man himself there (he was still doing Xfm at the time, which is nearby).

"Excuse me, mate", I said.

Ricky turned around expectantly, presumably anticipating the "Aren't you...?" question.

"Can I just reach across and get my pint? Cheers".

I got a definite glower off him for that :o)
(Capo, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 10:36, 11 replies)

I fixed keith Duffy' laptop
I run in to Keith Duffy a lot seeing as he is a patron of the charity my wife works for.

He's a pretty decent guy actually, even if he does overuse the word 'bud' when referring to any person he happens to have ever met or heard of.

Also, I am a very big fan of Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds. However, I find it amusing that he flogs it so much with a seemingly 'new' touring version every year or two. I recently went to see the "30th Anniversary Edition" show at the Dublin O2 and as I had a fancy backstage pass I got to meet him afterwards. I don't know why, but I asked him why he didn't do a show based on the Good Morning Britain theme tune with a robotic Anne Diamond trampling on the audience. He took it in good humour and bought me a drink. Nice bloke.
(Grundie, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 10:08, Reply)