I used to live near Rod Hull
One day, I was walking the dog past his house and I saw that Rod was up on his roof. He appeared to be fixing his TV aerial. I shouted "Oi! Rod" and waved. He just disappeared down the other side of the roof, didn't wave or anything. Miserable bastard.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:57, 1 reply)

Hangers on
A few years ago I was getting drunk in the Groucho club (as you do) and noticed Guy Berryman (coldplay bassist) being assailed by a drunken older gentleman at the bar "yes but who are you, what have you actually done?!" etc...
I was closeby and interjected that actually he was the bassist in the biggest band in the world. The old man quitened down and Guy and I struck up a conversation he and Johnny Buckland ended up asking me to come on with them to another bar which I duly did.
While we were in there I noticed another guy with the group looking me up and down in a kind of who are you and what are you doing here way. I was equally snooty back as I didn't recognise him and I had actually been asked to come along by the band thankyou very much. I regarded him as a hanger-on and I was in the in crowd.
The next morning in my drunken haze I was watching Popworld and recognised the 'hanger-on' as Albert Hammond from The Strokes.
Probably more right to be there than I did then. Ah well. What you don't know doesn't hurt you.
(B3taByter Meh, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:55, Reply)

Grotbags
I was nine we went to Central Television for a visit to the studios by a friend of my mum's. We got the whole tour and saw 'The Price is Right' set, that show where Nicky Campbell plied his trade with angry, shouty people, and the bit we were looking forward to, Emu's World with Rod Hull.

Asked to be quiet during rehearsals we saw the entire cast going through the motions until some guy asked us to leave. On the way out I tripped over one of the stage lights bringing it crashing down, bearly missing Grotbags herself. She looked daggers at me declaring to someone important that she couldn't work with 'f%@king kids' breaking stuff - I almost pissed myself I was so frightened.
(drydo, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:50, 1 reply)

Pissing off Mastermind
I literally bumped into Jordan in a Brighton Disney Store years ago. She looked off her nut. Being a piss taker I picked up a Buzz Lightyear lunch box and said "Excuse me, how much are these?" She called me a wanker.
(No Longer A Member Logged off since 1993, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:40, 1 reply)

Laughing footballers
Many years ago, when I still lived with my parents, we lived across the road from a rather well known premiership footballer. My folks are still there now, but he's now retired and moved back to London. We got to know him quite well over the few years he lived there.

It's a lovely place with a leafy private road and is always pretty quiet. He would often have other players over, and it was nice to see all the great cars outside on the road.

This one day in particular, he was out chatting to some other well known players, all stood around their flashy cars. I was also outside and had noticed them.

Being one of three brothers, there were always footballs lying around the place, and there just so happened to be one on our front garden, a little way back from the garage door.

A brilliant plan hit me, i'd run up and 'bend it like Beckham' into the top corner of the garage door. The guys would see this and of course i'd be having trials at the club in no time.

Things couldn't have been different.

Rather than take a few steps and kick the ball, I sprinted at the ball as fast as I could, ready to smash it through the garage door to a round of applause from my audience.

As I was just appraoching the ball, I took my eye off it to check I was being watched. Unfortunately I was, and unfortunately due to the last second loss of eye contact with the ball, I missed it. By a fooking country mile.

My leg swung in the air infront of me and panic instantly took over. The force of my kick not hitting the ball lifted and rotated me in the air, leaving me to land down hard on my arse.

The sound of grown men laughing so hard they can hardly catch their breath is quite something. I think I even heard one of them say they thought they might be sick they were in such hysterics.

My pride was in tatters, and my arse was sore from landing on the block paving. The only thing I could do was get up, and shout at them all to f*ck off. Which I did and then ran away as fast as I could.

Did I mention that I was about 17 at the time(!), and will always remember this as one of the wost experiences of my life.....

Oh the shame....
(big perm is no good with them there 'puters, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:37, 3 replies)

You're fat and you've no sense of humour.
I was at a Billy Bragg gig and rotund humour vacuum Phill Jupitus was in attendance (he even took to the stage and did a crushingly unfunny song about bestiality). After the gig he was milling around signing stuff for folk so I approached him and told him I thought he was shit in Cracker. Not the funniest gag granted but I had drunk an ale. Huffy fucker looked at me like I'd offered him a freshly laid shite.
(bluebiscuit, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:31, 3 replies)

.
During my days of working in provincial theatres I managed to annoy a few Z listers.

I recall being so bored during one of Pam Ayre's shows I started playing battleships over the comms system with the bloke on lights (I was stage-side and no further than 15 feet awaty from Ms. Ayres). She complained loudly after the show that my calling out of HIT and MISS had put her off of reciting her dull tweeness.

We also nearly killed Dave Benson (think that was his name - used to be in Goodnight Sweetheart and does a passable Kenneth Williams impression). We flew in a tab track which caught some scenery during it decent missing him by inches.

Happy days...
(Flobbit gave you the horn on, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:24, Reply)

Cheggers
This story is a bit of a hand-me-down but it's wonderful. A friend of a friend was working as a proctologist somewhere (i'm so definite with my locations, characters but it gets better). Anyway, this guy was called to a cubicle where a man was waiting for a rectal examination of some sort. When he pulled the curtain open, the scene revealed was none other than that of Keith Chegwin in his hospital pyjamas. Cheggers (remember he was about to have a stranger rifling thorugh the contents of his shit box) turned with glee to welcome my friend to his cubicle, raised both of his thumbs and said "Wahey!".
I'm not sure that he did this when my friend was wrist-deep in his hoop though.
( Fray Brentos *mega-belms*, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:13, 2 replies)

I've not met anyone really famous
so I'll have to resort to telling a tale on someone I know.

Mike was a DJ in the 80s, working in one of the smaller cities in New York. As such he got to attend some of the after show parties for the bands who played in the venues in town.

One night it was Heart who played, and he was at the party afterward. This was when they were getting a lot of airplay, and also about the time that Ann Wilson (the dark haired one) was starting to really gain weight fast. Due to careful editing and clothing choices it wasn't generally known how obese she was getting until they performed live.

Mike was standing with a group of people talking and the subject of Ann's weight came up. He laughed and said "Yeah, now Dreamboat Annie is Tugboat Annie." He noticed the look of horror on their faces and turned around just as Ann Wilson twatted him.

Gotta say, he deserved it...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:10, Reply)

My mam danced with Graeme Souness
in Redcar.
(Lord Of Lamb, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:09, 2 replies)

Darth Vader
I met Darth Vader in Tesco's. He was there near the clothing aisle. He wouldn't say hello, but I did get him to sign a bit of paper as proof.

I have since lost that bit of paper, though, so you'll have to take my word for it.

The Dulux dog was there as well, between the kids' toys and the tinned soup.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:56, Reply)

The little man with the fatwah...
Because of the fatwah upon him, Salman Rushdie was hiding somewhere on the West coast of Scotland. I don’t know exactly where and don’t care… he’s not there now.
Visiting my family, I was flying up to Prestwick International with the paddy airline.

Boarding the plane, I was asked not to take any seats in the first 3 rows so I sat aisle side on the 4th row.

Just before the doors closed, enter the wee beardie himself and about 4 bodyguards who sat in the first row whilst the bodies placed themselves strategically around him.

It was all I could to restrain myself from shouting “Allahu Akabar” during takeoff and watch them all crap themselves.

If I had, I doubt I would be here to tell the tale…. Either pokey or a bullet…
I did manage to get between him and his guards as we walked through the terminal... they did panic a bit to the point where one ran to get between us...
(bof, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:54, 2 replies)

When I'm drunk
I tend to turn on my PC when I get home. Now if I'm barely-able-to-stand-up, projectile vomitting style drunk, I'm usually safe as I can't get past the login screen. When I'm slightly tipsy drunk I'm not too bad as I still have enough sense not to send or post anything too damaging. However, when I'm 8 pints on an empty stomach pissed I'm a dangerous animal and my own worst enemy.

You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning with a raging hangover and you're slowly starting to piece the world back together again? What happened last night, how did I get home, what did I... and then there it is. The recollection of exactly what you did last night. Added to the splitting headache and delicate stomach you now have twisting knots of nausea and self loathing.

Why, why, why, did I spend an hour writing an email at 01:00 and click send?

After sending this particular mail I literally couldn't bring myself to check my email for an entire week. I missed trips to the cinema/pub/gigs etc. and was accused of rudely ignoring people but I couldn't admit to anyone what I'd done. So for ultimate catharthis I'll confess to the world instead... *sigh*

I rather like the cheeky, cute, pint sized, elvish stand-up comedienne Lucy Porter. So much so I turn up to her shows early to get a seat on the front row hoping for interaction instead of my usual hiding a good few rows back in obscure safety. Once when I was randomly in Edinburgh I ended up going to see her Fringe show on my own (and queued behind Toby the serial killer from Hollyoakes - two celebrity stories for the price of one here!) The last time she came to Cambridge I went along to see her with a female friend L and was keen to try and get some audience participation with her.

And thankfully I didn't have to try too hard, Ms Porter had arranged a music quiz as part of her show. I know every song ever in the entire history of music so thought I'm well in with a shout here. Feeling not very nervous owing to my several pints of Dutch courage the opening bars of Gold by The Sugarcubes started playing throughout the hall and I was shocked to find my hand was the only one raised.

"Sugarcubes. Erm, Gold."

"That's right! Come up on stage and choose a prize."

"That gold beer thingy."

Tiny bit of chat and I was back in my chair feeling all giddy, happily drinking my godawful tin of tramp strength beer. My mate L and I managed to have a few words with her after the show and give her directions out of Cambridge (no mean feat). I continued drinking my way through town slowly working homeward.

It's at this point when I stupidly remember how Lucy kindly offered all us punters the chance to contact her for free tickets to pre-Fringe shows. Contact her by email that is. I fired up the PC, composed the following, spell checked it to fuck and hit send before stumbling upstairs for some well deserved shuteye.


From: me
To: Lucy Porter
Subject: thank you for the gold label
---
I very much enjoyed the can of barley wine as it helped me on my journey to the destination I finally arrived at - home, and merrily pissed. I hope you also made it home safe due to, or even in spite of, mine and L's directions.

I'm myname, the long haired bloke who liked The Sugarcubes, Neil Young, Shed Seven and music quizzes in general. If you ever feel like hosting another in Cambridge let me know and I'll be sure to attend.

Attached is a picture not of a trophy cabinet but my living room windowsill. From left to right it contains: a limited edition bottle of Kahlua, The Big Lebowski is my favourite film and I'm more than a bit partial to a White Russian or seven; a strange one-off trophy given to me by my parents of an apple carved from wood which is a bit of a family in-joke (it's a long story); the very lovely, if slightly difficult to drink, tin of barley wine I was generously awarded this evening; and finally Gerald, my sunshine buddy.

I imagine that being as you are a famous person there is a significant amount of asynchronicity regarding the information known about you. To balance this out - if you're interested in the slightest that is - I post answers to b3ta's Question Of The Week (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/ - the Best Of page to the previous weeks questions is 24 carat comedy *ahem* gold ;)

This website which is a favourite of sick minded London commuters has this section whereby people are invited to post their amusing tales to random weekly questions. My most popular answers can be found here, www.b3ta.com/users/profile.php?id=30288. If you do a search on this page for "Gerald" you can find the story behind my little green sunshine buddy who now sits next to an empty can of high strength Gold Label.

So thank you Ms Porter for a most entertaining evening. I saw your Fringe show about Love in Edinburgh a couple of years back. I saw it again when you played the Junction in Cambridge. Of course by then the conclusion of the show was a little more bitter sweet as you were no longer with the man who you wooed so successfully with your nurse's outfit. I'd like to point out now that, as the only prize winning bloke whose relationship status was not questioned, I am very much single. If you're at all interested in changing this state of affairs feel free to email back and I will whisk you off your feet in a blaze of romantic whisking.

Or is this the kind of thing you get from internet based weirdos every week and you're sick to the back teeth of it?

myname
---

When I finally logged back into my email I was relieved to find no reply. However, if anyone has seen her standup routine since this summer can they confirm that it doesn't contain any material based on me and my ultra cool chat up technique?
( djtrialprice, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:54, 19 replies)

I am a massive racist
The other day I was walking round some backstreets near Trafalgar Square when I noticed a big black man grinning like a loon at me.

"Awight," he said as I accidentally made eye contact.

I gave him my foulest stare, the one I use for creepy weirdoes who try and talk to me in the streets. This look is full of rage and hate, and I imagine prolonged exposure would result in nosebleeds and death.

Nose in the air, I marched off.

Seconds later I look up at the theatre near me. Creepy black guy seems to be playing Othello in the production.

Creepy black guy is Lenny Henry.

Oh well, he'd be annoying if he were white, too.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:52, 4 replies)

Beer bath
I once chucked a pint of beer over Claire Grogan. I get a warm fuzzy feeling to this day **smiles**
(3badcats, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:41, 5 replies)

Noel Fieldings Bitch Girlfriend
not worth a *clicky* i know but:

I’ve met noel a few times, like around the time of the early days of the mighty boosh.
He’s always been a real nice guy to me.

Reason i’ve met him is i have friends in common with his ex girlfriend Delia Gaitskell.

I just want to say she’s a total cunt. And the last thing she ever said to me was go fuck yourself.

Why?

No reason.

I swear, for no fucking reason.
she’s a diva bitch queen.

It’s a shame because noel and i got on well, but i just couldn’t take that moron cunt he was with all the time so i would never meet up with them. Very happy he’s seen the light and split up with the bitch.
(L E T S G O "Stop buying into and spreading this shit", Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:20, 3 replies)

A touch frosty
About 6 years ago whilst still in sixth form I worked for a regional airline on checkin at my local airport. This was the time that it had just become policy for for all passengers to have some form of photo ID to travel (even just within the UK). Most people had no problems in producing something even if they weren't aware of the requirement apart from one twunt.
There has a lot of activity around my village and surrounding towns with filming crews filming another load of shite for ITV drama. I was plodding on through checking people in for a london flight one busy evening when a old man came to the desk. He was in a rush, not very talkative and was a bit rude as he chucked his ticket at me.
"Can I see you photo ID please sir" says I. Clearly annoyed with such a request he snarls "Whats all this about? I'm fucking travelling within the UK, I don't need photo ID". Trying to be nice I replied "I'm afraid its company policy, certainly in this airport, I'm sorry you weren't aware". To which he snapped "Oh FFS" and then removed his aviator glasses and shitty hat, looked at me in the eye and stated "This is my photo ID" whilst just standing there smug as a cunt. Then the penny dropped, it was David Jason (real name david white on the ticket by which time he had shoved his passport under my nose.
You may be a knight of the realm but it doesn't give you the right talk to everyone like a complete cunt.
(Is this it like eggs but better, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:11, 3 replies)

Like many here I've had the misfortune to meet Princess Anne before
www.b3ta.com/questions/encounterswithroyalty/post59504
( M3rx likes the Asian ladies, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:53, Reply)

Jodie Marsh
To my eternal shame, I once slept with Jodie Marsh. She had a tattoo of a sea-shell on her inner thigh, and when I put my ear to it, I could smell the sea.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:30, 1 reply)

Oh, just remembered
My mate Carl used to be in a band that supported The Hollies on a tour some years ago. They'd finish and then go back to their piss poor dressing room. Then The Hollies would do their concert, finish and go back to their somewhat more lavish room. The Hollies gave Carl's band not one acknowledgment. Not a thanks, not a cheers, nothing.

When they arrived at the last gig of the tour, The Hollies were celebrating in their room before the start of the gig, a party that would end long after the gig had finished. Anyway, Carl went to their room to try and create a bit of rapport and hopefully get to join in with the celebrations. After all, they'd played just as many venues as they had.

The member of The Hollies showed him a bit of gratitude followed by something along the lines of "hadn't you better go get ready?"
Carl replied with "Yeah sure, are we having a drink after the show?"
"Well we are, dunno what you lot are doing" and shut the door.

"Cunts" thought Carl. So when he and his band went on to open the show, they played The Hollies entire set in order, leaving them to come on and play exactly the same songs to an audience that had had their fill of those tracks.

After the gig, Carl's band were back in their pokey dressing room having a drink when one of The Hollies burst in.
"What the fuck do you think you're playing at??" he bellowed at them.
"We're having a drink, now fuck off and shut the door, you're letting a draft in"
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:24, 6 replies)

Many years ago
My band had the good fortune to open for Napalm Death as the local support on their tour when it stopped in Portsmouth.

We'll skip past the smell of incredibly strong skunk emanating from their dressing room, ignore the fact that we spent most of the time hanging out with the tour support (Defenestration, who we were sharing a dressing room with, lovely people) and focus on my abiding memory of that evening, seeing as my band had an off day and were awful...

Minding our own business in the aforesaid dressing room, who should poke his head round the door than large and hirsute Napalm bass player Shane Embury!

He asked us if he could borrow a spoon. We were spoonless, sadly.

The end.
(beanojam isn't really Ricardo Flange, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:23, 12 replies)

They’re just like you & me you know…

Over the years, a few select pillars of our cultural and artistic elite have borne witness to my presence…and some have even made physical contact with me…

The probem is, however, that I’m really shy, so I don’t like them knowing who I am…

For instance, In 2002 I posed as a journalist and got in to a special press conference being held by the glamour model ‘Jordan’. I felt my trouser-bulge swell anxiously as she gave me a teasing wave, but unfortunately I was soon asked to leave, as she apparently found my line of questioning ‘distasteful’. She’s one to fucking talk! But suffice to say, I unfortunately never got to find out if her big hairy moip needed sewing up after she had dropped that massive fatspack sproglet.

My celebrity watching hobby didn’t start there though…Many years ago I once wore a manky old animal fir and sneaked into a party hosted by none other than Nicholas Parsons! My plan was to lay by the fireplace and pretend to be an elaborate hearthrug. It worked like a charm! I nearly pappered my grundies with blissfull jizz when I was not only trampled by King Nicholas himself, but also by some bloke off Eastenders who played the guy that replenished the washing powder in the Laundrette vending machines.

6 months later I crashed a cocktail party in Kentish Town wearing high heels, a low-cut top and a blonde wig. Despite my Size 11 feet, 5 o’clock shadow and capacious beergut I still managed to get brutally arse-raped by John Leslie…And all I was after was a signed photo.

Once I was bitten by the celebrity bug my disguises started getting more and more elaborate. Through the summer of ’95 I had adopted the persona of a champion showjumping horse and toured the well-to-do areas of Britain. Once in the same day, I not only had HRH Princess Anne fart out a squelchy one whilst astride me, but I also received a sly undercarriage fondle from Zara Philips!.. Unfotunately, the success of my idea went to my head and I took it further – resulting in a trip to America and a bit of an unfortunate incident with Christopher Reeve which I’d rather not talk about right now. Those fences were fucking high though.

However, my taste for meeting with royalty had properly taken hold of me and In mid ’97 I sent some time razzing around by the Hilton Hotel in Paris, disguised as a white Fiat Uno. One night I actually got quite close to Pricess Di you know – but her fucking chauffer drove faster than I could keep up with and I lost her …Come to think of it, I haven’t heard much about her since that night – Is she still our ‘Queen of hearts’?

After coming back home I used a combination of rubber tubes and tippex to fashion myself as a toilet in the changing rooms of the London Hippodrome. I thought Victoria Wood was going to be performing that night but unfortunately, and to my lasting regret, she had to cancel at the last minute, and without my knowledge she was replaced by Bernard Manning. I was washing putrified lumps of half-chewed black pudding out of the back of my throat for a fortnight.

More recently I disguised myself as a soap dispenser in the VIP toilets at the O2 arena when Kylie played there. I can’t describe the feeling of satisfaction as I watched her slip off for a sneaky dump, then approach the sink and proceed to pump repeatedly on my dangling nosh-nozzle. Her look of relief as I finally produced drizzles of lumpy ejaculate for her to smear over her hands and face was a vision I will always cherish.

My Latest coup has gone sour however. I was planning to pass myself off as a pair of spangly tight underpants and have Michael Jackson wear me during the finale of his upcoming tour. In preparation for the event I wanted to check what size he wore, so I flew to the US and hid in his undercrackers drawer. I was quite taken aback one morning when he opened the drawer bollock starkers, but thinking that he must have a sense of humour I pointed to his tiny floppy appendage and shouted “A-HEE-HEE!”

How was I to know he had a heart problem? – I spent ages on that costume…the selfish cunt..

Nowadays I’m reduced to perpetually giving myself electric shocks with a stun gun as part of my latest ruse - I'm posing as a gargantuan vibrating anal sex toy for Eamonn Holmes.

At least I’m keeping busy.

And there’s always Susan Boyle - You should see what I've got planned for her.

Actually, before I do anything with her I'd better practice...Now, where's that Stephen Gately these days?...*


*last line added later for cutting-edge topical hilarity
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:14, 4 replies)

Idiot...
I live in Slebsville and scootering to work I'll often encounter a tramp-like Helena Bonham Carter, a half-pissed Hugh Laurie and maybe a Gallagher or two standing menacingly by the school gates.

But it was another member of my local celebrity crew that really showed himself up one morning.

I was happily tootling along on my trusty Vespa, when I had to slow down for a huge, black with blacked-out windows Audi Q7 (look the fucker up if you wanna see what an absolute Cuntmobile this car is).

This 'car' had slowed to a complete halt in the middle of the road, so I made a move to swerve around the right-hand side of it. A bad move as it turned out. As I endeavoured to pass the beast, it too decided to swerve to the right, with no indication at all. I screeched to a halt and narrowly avoided slamming into the side.

Utterly incensed and filled with the kind of confidence that only comes when wearing a full-face helmet and steel-ribbed gloves, I pulled up to the driver's door of the 'Sports Utility Vehicle' and banged on the window.

The tinted glass whirred its way down. The driver kind of leaned out holding what looked like a photograph.

'Haven't you got any fucking indicators,' I yelled at him, 'you almost fucking knocked me off my bike!'

Having vented, I felt my rage ebbing away and as I waited for the driver to reply, I took a long hard look at him.

'Er...sorry mate,' the driver replied, 'it's a new car...not sure where everything is yet.'

Fair enough. At least he apolgised. Then I looked again at what he was holding - it was a small, black and white, signed picture of himself.

'What's that for?' I asked

'Oh, I thought you were another one after an autograph.' he wittered.

Then it clicked. It was only that cunt Jude Law. Moron thought I'd stopped him for a fucking autograph.

'Autograph? Learn how to bloody drive.' I shouted as I pulled way, adding for good measure: 'And you were SHIT in Star Wars!'

My own idiocy hit me a few minutes later.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:03, 11 replies)

Ross Kemp on Smoking
I left the office yesterday evening and decided to have a post-work cigarette. As I walked towards Tottenham Court tube station I crossed paths with Ross Kemp AKA Grant Mitchell. I gave him a friendly smile in a "I recognise you" kind of way and his response..."Don't smoke cigarettes." Thanks Grant, maybe I'll start smoking crack instead.
(homeandaway, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:48, 9 replies)

Winning friends and influencing people
Posted this before but it's perfik for this week.

Back in the Harlequin’s misspent youth while at a higher learning institution he dallied with the idea of PR as a possible profession. It’s mostly filled with nubile blonde ladies, famous sorts and free stuff thought I. In order to truly live up to the middle class stereotype I skipped all that pesky interview nonsense and used nepotism to get some work experience. A friend’s mum is MD at a London agency and a quick chat and bit of charm got me in to learn the ropes. Trendy Soho sorts everywhere, the aforementioned females of blonde persuasion and some interesting stuff to work on, namely London Fashion Week.

I’ll say straight off that it was epic fun. Being one of five straight men in a three mile square radius with lots of stunning women running around drunk, stoned or high as a kite led to some rather enjoyable experiences to the extent that I went back to do three more seasons. The last one was the best as the harlequin had his job nailed – basically looking after the photographers and TV crews – and was a little older and wiser. Now fashion sorts are, with very few exceptions, a daft and bloody useless bunch and this extends to their own PRs. All of these seem to be twenty-something girls in leggings and acid yellow hot pants with clipboards and headset microphones. Buggered if I know who they were talking to on these, they were never on the event channels and their job seemed to be to run around and get in peoples way and annoy everyone.

So it was that on the last day of the week the Harlequin found himself arguing with one of these little darlings over why the show for the designer she was working for was running 45 minutes late. Lots of annoyed looking journos, celeb types and fashion people in the audience and Harlequin was getting an earful from the photographers as they had to be at another show at a different venue ASAP. So Harlequin tries to find out what the hold up is and is going backstage when he is waylaid by a slightly frazzled looking hot pant wearer.

“You can’t go back there” says she.

“Erm, I can actually” says I.

“No you can’t, it’s restricted access. Only fashion week staff are allowed I’m afraid” she sneers back, looking at Harlequin’s distinct lack of fashion sense.

“I know, I am staff and I need to know what’s taking so long as I’ve got forty increasingly annoyed photographers to calm down.” I fire back as I pull out the all access spiffy blue “god” pass that proved I was one of the anointed. “Now be a dear and run along and count the chairs or something” I snapped. It had been a long week, with a number of late nights involving booze and women in overly large quantities and so the fuse was pretty short.

I sauntered backstage to see a line of models ready to go and the stylists all looking nervously at a corner table where there appeared to be five people all talking at the top of their voices at the same time. One was the designer in question and he was looking increasingly agitated as I wondered over. Heads turned as I approached - the Harlequin is a tall chap – and a woman I then recognise turns in her seat. It’s a certain English supermodel with a reputation for throwing things at assistants and getting booted off airplanes. Shit the fucking bed. And now she’s glaring at me and barks in a somewhat testy tone “Well?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering when the show is going to start”

“Who are you?”

“I work for Fashion Week, I’m a liaison for the photographers and television crews”

“That’s nice for you but we’ll start when I’m ready” she announces haughtily

“I’m sure that’s the case but I was hoping it would be soon as you’re running rather behind time and the guests and the media are getting quite restless."

“They’ll wait for me, they always do. It’s not my fault anyway. Those stupid women – she indicates the stylists – fucked up my make up so I’m doing it myself.”

“Er, I’m sorry things aren’t running smoothly. If you could just finish up as quickly as you can I’m sure everyone would appreciate it.”

She stands up at this point and looks me in the eye. Bloody hell, she’s my height in those heels. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready. I’ve been doing this a while and I don’t need some fucking jumped up little gopher telling me how to do my job,”

The Harlequin is not impressed by her tone. “There’s really no need for insults, I’m merely trying to make sure the guys I’m working with have enough time to get to the next show and know what’s holding them up.”

“I’ll decide if it’s time for insults! Those fuckers can wait for me, it’s their job”

And at this point the Harlequin’s brain / mouth filter failed.

“And it’s your job Miss Well-known-soup-brand to get here on time and walk up and down without falling on your arse.”
…
…
Crap.
…
I just verbally bitch slapped a supermodel. Oh dear.

As what I said permeates her head a tactical withdrawal seemed like the proper move so the Harlequin about faces and marches out passed some rather awestruck make-up artists. I hear a fairly incoherent shout but don’t turn and then I’m back safe and sound front of house. Another 5 minutes and the show started with the snappers all commenting that a certain model had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp on her. At the end of week party that night after a few glasses of bubbly I fessed up to the boss and made it clear that it was my last season. She agreed it was probably for the best and then got me good and drunk. Drunk enough that I had the balls to go and chat up an underwear model. But that’s another story…

Length? Well the heels were at least 6 inches...
(DarkHarlequin putting babies on spikes since, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:47, 3 replies)

Alice in Wonderland
Disneyworld, Florida. 14th November 1998.

I really didn't properly meet the girl who had taken on the role of the famous literary creation, however, she was fucking stunning with that real edge of shy cuteness. So I did get her autograph and a photograph of her.

I wanked myself silly over that picture for years.
( Muns, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:40, Reply)

She's sooooo weeeeee!
When it comes to celebs, I'm of the opinion that they're all just normal people in the end and don't want to be bothered (and if they do want to be bothered, then they can't be normal and should be avoided).

This usually means that if I see anyone famous, I'll attempt to behave in as restrained a manner as possible. Of course that'd make for a very boring QOTW answer, and so it was on the occasion that Lucy Porter Visited My Work.

Being an employee of a "Large Scottish Newspaper" during the festival did mean that we'd get a fair few celeb types through the door, and I happened to notice a face at reception that looked familiar. My calm exterior lasted all the time it took to get to my desk, at which point I exploded "Oh my god, oh my god I think Lucy Porter is at the front desk!" complete with arm gestures and manic grin.

Of course it probably was the final statement (bellowed rather than whispered) that really sealed my embaressment.

SHE'S SOOOOO WEEEE!

Erhem.
(chuckle_h0und You furnish the pictures, I'll furnish the war, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:39, 1 reply)

Bono
I was at a concert in Ireland watching U2. As bono came on stage, he started clicking his fingers; "every time I click my fingers, a child in Africa dies." he claimed.

"Stop fucking doing it then" I shouted.*









* not true in the slightest, and only slightly changed from the email I recieved it in.
(dchurch bah, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:36, 1 reply)