I Met Thomas Dolby
He was speaking (read "trying to market some poorly conceived computer music software") at a technology conference I was working at. He seemed like an interesting guy and of course his music is awesome, so afterwards I went to introduce myself. I told him my name and lied that I had enjoyed his talk, to which he responded "that's nice..." and turned away to talk with someone who looked like they had money to spend. If I were famous I would never snub someone in that sort of situation. Never ever.

Oh and once I played some music in a bar with the drummer from the band Phish. He lived fairly close to me in Maine at the time but I think we still have never uttered a word to each other.
( the prick of misery pierced my foot on a spiiiike on, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 22:34, Reply)

So Near, Yet So Far.
Sitting in the US Embassy in London, mid-2005, arrived as early as they open to get my visa, reading Danny Wallace's "Join Me" to pass the time, and quietly ranting to the other half about how I didn't like this book, and consequently didn't like Danny Wallace. I wanted to like it, but it just wasn't as entertaining as the books written by his friend, Dave Gorman.

I had a theory that Gorman's constant feeling like a fish out of water showed how little he was in control of the situation but his friendly nature found him friends, whereas Wallace's attempt was calculated and cold and he probably had a bit of an ego and wanted people to like him because he was naturally not as friendly, and even the parts that were unpredictable in Wallace's book still sounded, well, dull compared to the maverick decisions of Gorman and his accomplices. Wallace was a man trying to make up a farcical adventure for financial gain, because his friend had an entertaining adventure and therefore a story and therefore a book and eventually profit and he wanted in on that too.

Time passes and I see someone that looks famous sit down on the other side of the sea of sterile chairs. It can't be, can it? I feel uncomfortable possibly bothering him. However, the tannoy blared "Could a Mr. David Gorman please come back to Number 2, you have left your passport," and I knew it was him. He looked around, slightly miffed that his identity was shouted out, and harumphed himself back to the counter to grab his passport back. I waited a little while for him to sit back down, composed myself and went over to him.

"Hi, Dave. Thanks for your adventures, they gave me the drive to travel myself. And to look at other people with my name on Google."
"Oh! Hello! Thank you." He noticed the book, but still asked out of politeness, "What's that you've got there?"
"Oh, this?" I pouted, "I don't like it. Would it sound like a stalker if I said I wished I'd had your book on me so you could sign it?"
"Well, maybe, but let's see what I can do anyway." He ushered me to sit down and took the book from me and wrote an inscription anyway.

"To Danny Wallace, It is of the opinion of Mr. rzeki that I am better than you. Signed, Dave Gorman."

Gorman then told me that he had overheard my rant and was kind of disappointed in my opinion; that if I could hold him in high regard, then surely Gorman knew who good, friendly people were and would keep in close contact with them.

And with that, I realised I'd slagged off one of my favourite celebrity's best mates in earshot of said celebrity and his civilness and courtesy in lambasting me back made me look like even more of a prick.

On the other hand, I planned to write a book about getting ten celebrities in a row to read notes left for them in their books by other celebrities.

Length? I don't know, I didn't really feel compelled to finish.
(rzeki, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 22:13, 1 reply)

Tenuous one...
I used to go out with the granddaughter of the cousin of the bloke that played a German submarine captain in an episode of Dad's Army.
( TheMattInAHat has a particular... odour..., Sat 10 Oct 2009, 21:38, 3 replies)

A night to remember
As my childhood was spent growing up in a lazy little suburb of london me and friends used to spend a majority of our time in the big city as it was only half an hour away on the met line. So the night started out as normal going around our usual haunts in Camden enjoying a few drinks and slipping slowly into inebriation.
it get to 11 and we are sitting in the exchange bar in china town as everything is shutting down and we have to find a club fast but all being 17 we couldn't really imagine us being up there all night but we see a little doorway across the road from the exchange bar just like
the door of a house or flat with a club name across the top. everyone who has walked through china town would have walked past this seedy night club but only ten percent would of actually realised its awesomeness.
We thought nothing of it we were used to seedy establishments. The time got to 1 and we were sobering up due to high prices of drinks. We go off dancing and start talking to these random birds on the dance floor later on into the night we end up getting off with two of the group who were all dressed flamboyantly for the Friday night crowd we didnt think anything of it untill the lady i was getting off with said "this is realy fun and all but please keep quiet about this" being curious about this I asked "why?" she just simply replied "well im currently working for one of the top running musicals in london and my face is on the poster for it so i cant have you telling your friends you got with me" being very sceptical I just laughed it off kept on dancing and getting with this woman and thought nothing more of it.
Seeing it was too late to get a train home to our slum we partied until the morning trudged back to Euston station and sat down on the train ready to depart back to the town we knew and... love is kind of strong... tolerated. Until who did I see on a poster the same lady who i seduced a few hours before. In my half still drunk half hungover state my tiny brain could not acknowledge this day and still to this day have trouble fathoming it but still it stands as one of my greater achievements in the field of women even if i still cant fully understand how it happened myself.
(beneathawindowssevensky is like a psychaldelic bus ride through the mind, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 21:27, Reply)

Brace yourself..
Kirk from Coronation street opened my local Poundland.

And I once saw Anthony Worral Thompson at an airport in Spain.

Really.
(i should have joined myspace, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 20:34, 3 replies)

OK i have many...
Reading this QOTW I get a bit smug.

Yes I do a profesional media job, so have interviewed many hundreds of celebs. Propper ones and z-listers who happen to be in the local area. In the last week I've spoken to Richard Hammond and Jim Kerr to name just two, and next week Philip Olivier is on the list. Yeh I know, Philip Olivier may not be an intelectual high point.

Nicest ones? Ian Gillan is a top bloke, Midge Ure apologised profusely for missing an interview because he was poking a bonfire with a stick in his garden, and Katherine Jenkins posed for the press picture with me and I was just doing the coy standing next to her thing, and she put her arm round me and pressed her not inconsiderable bossom into me. I could hardly breathe for many reasons. The bestest though was the interview with Keith Alan in a pub on his birthday... that was just jolly... and there is nothing more to be said.

Now the twunts. Nicholas frigging Parsons is one of the most self absorbed appaling pompous fuckers ever. Seriously bad man. Britt Ekland is MENTAL, and it's really hard to interview someone when thier dog is eating your shoes... in a radio studio... live. Mike Rutherford (of Genesis) is everso dull, he's been in one of the bigest bands ever and he is just like he was thier accountant, it's the only star interview that I have deleted before broadcast. So. So. Dull.

Most memorable? Ron Jeremy. Porn Star. Legend. Inteligent and thoughtful, he's articulate, he's educated and funny as seeing him in a jazz movie.

That is all.
(rockers74 killed a man in Reno just to watch him die., Sat 10 Oct 2009, 20:25, 6 replies)

Pretty crap
but Richard Dawkins spluttered at me when I spilt champagne down the side of his glass whilst serving him at a party I was waitering at. He's really short and angry looking. Also he's probably not really a celebrity.

On the other hand I did take a piss next to Jimmy White in a pub in Sheffield.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 19:59, 2 replies)

They're always shorter in person
When going over to a friend's house the other day, I was greeted with 'Did you know (name of a neighbour)'s husband was a founding member of Corrosion of Conformity?'
He was indeed. Very friendly, nice fellow, but there's now something a touch surreal about watching him walk the dogs past our house.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 19:45, Reply)

Theatre Life
My job as a marketing assistant in a theatre means I meet various celebrities and for some reason it’s always the soap stars and has beens that are the biggest pain in the arse. I have been lucky enough to meet some lovely people and Sean Lock, Dara O’Briain, Jimmy Carr and The Proclaimers were all charming and down to earth, The Chuckle Brothers were also great ... although they do look even more like paedophiles in real life than they do on Television.

One person that was truly dreadful was an ex-Emmerdale star who appeared in panto at the theatre a couple of Christmases ago. She was rude to everyone, arrogant and demanding. At one point we received the souvenir brochures and I had to take them round all the dressing rooms for the performers to see, after knocking on her door she yelled “come in” and once inside I was confronted with her in her underwear barking orders at her assistant. She took one look at the brochure and threw in on the floor and demanded I fetch her some coffee, even though it wasn’t my job to bring her coffee I did have someone take a cup to her, she thanked me for this by demanding I was fired.

She did this with pretty much every member of staff for the entire run of the panto, one night blaming the stage door security for the fact no one had asked her for an autograph once during the panto’s run and demanding they were fired.

I don’t know why the c-list, soap star celebrities are the worst but they always are, this years panto stars Lisa Riley and I’m hoping she will be less of a nightmare to deal with.

Oh and Phill Jupitus appeared at the theatre in March and he was one of the biggest pricks I’ve ever met, Marcus Brigstocke was on the same bill and was lovely.
(Sub-Lingual Hates You, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 18:59, 4 replies)

In which a minorly well-known journalistic type approves of my hair.
Martin Bell, the journalist and man in the white suit, did a guest lecture at my uni last year. It was "strongly recommended" that those of us on the journalism course went to it, so naturally at least three people in my year showed up. I was one of them: I am a journalism geek, had nothing better to do and was almost certainly mildly stoned.

Furthermore, on finding out we were actually going to get a halfway decent guest lecturer for once (the interesting ones tend to pass over Chester. Edwina Currie came here once, but I slept through it and so didn't get to ask her if she'd come across any Major hindrances in her political career. But I digress), I had googled Mr Bell to see if he was really as nifty and liberal as he seemed. A lifetime's association with Frank Zappa, Bill Hicks, Mark Thomas, PJ O'Rourke and the like has conditioned me with the belief that everyone has Something To Hide; that a question isn't worth asking if it doesn't make the subject uncomfortable; and that I sort of want to be Jack Parlabane when I grow up. So, internet, tell me Martin Bell's filthy secrets.

And it did, or seemed to. Multiple sources, none of which were Wikipedia, told me Martin Bell - UNICEF ambassador, former anti-sleaze MP and all-round Good Guy - had, during his time in Parliament, voted in favour of Section 28, that nasty, brutish little law forbidding schoolchildren being taught anything positive about gay people. I was torn between 'ONOZ! Not that nice man!' and 'booya! Now I can ask a difficult question and be edgy and cool'.

So, when we got to the audience participation part of the lecture, up I leapt to ask my cool and edgy question. It went a bit like this:
"Why did you support Section 28?"
"I didn't."
"Oh."

But he went on to say he was chuffed with the question, that I had balls (I paraphrase) for asking it, and that you should always ask difficult questions. Or something. Afterwards I was outside the lecture theatre having a fag when he came out; whereupon he complimented me again on my nifty question-asking skills and the colour of my hair (pink). My mother may never forgive him.
(Shinigami, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 18:20, Reply)

Jive to the max
In addition to bellamy and osbourne. I got pissed in the corrie tap in Bristol with the guy in jive bunny.

Didn't know anything about the music bug from what I heard they sold 15 000 000 records.

Decent bloke.
( zulu eh?, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 16:41, 2 replies)

Michael Barrymore and a Sugababe
A couple of years before the whole pool thing, me and my mate went clubbing with Michael Barrymore. Nice bloke. Wasn't rude to him. He pinched my bum.

And on my 23rd birthday, during a massive party, I was suitably mashed with eyes rolling in either direction and a gurn that made my lips peel right back over my head, got talking to a blonde girl. She was very nice and polite in the face of my profuse muntered thanks for being at the party.

Turns out she was one of the Sugababes. Had no idea. She was lovely.
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 14:21, Reply)

oops...
So I was lost in the grounds of Marlborough college a couple of years ago trying to find my way to a gig that some friends of mine were playing. I found a group of students rehearsing a drama piece in a room somewhere and asked directions. A lovely young girl offered to escort me there as it was a bit of a way off. So on the way we engaged in nominal small talk...

'did your parents study here?' I ask.
'no.' said she.
'Oh right.'
'mum studied in london and dad studied in edinborough.'
'So your paren'ts sent you here to give you an oppertunity to hang out with some roaylty for a few years then did they??' I blurt
'Erm... what do you mean?'
'Well I know that princess Beatrix and her sister with the funny name study here'
'Oh yes... I think one of them is in my year' she tells me.

Then pretty much silence until we arrive at our destination.

When we get there I thank her for showing me the way. tell her what a great help shes been and ask her her name.

'Eugenie!'

Great royal bollocks!!
(horsethroat chewing on life's gristle on, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 13:59, 8 replies)

I don't meet celebrities,
I run around corners, directly into them. My most famous was smashing face first into Pam Ferris during the height of Darling Buds fame. She was very nice about it as I tried to apologise. I didn't realise it was her until a friend told me.

That's the most famous. The most embarrassing one was when I ran into David Batty at Showcase Cinemas. I was so star-struck (Leeds fan) that I couldn't speak to apologise, so I just got a sneering look from my boyhood hero.
( Rev. A-MOL is lurking around these parts again, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 13:53, Reply)

TV's Paul Ross's Favourite Pearoast
I was in the pub the other day and a minor TV celebrity walked in, clutching his Big Black Book of Horror.

"Look!" I said to my uncomprehending chums, "It's TV's Paul Ross! The man with the magic voice! When he holds hands with himself marvellous happenings occur!".

They looked at me and gave a half shake of the head before looking at the floor and resuming their previous activity of ignoring me. Ignoredom, I like to call it, when boredom causes one to ignore a companion and stare at the floor. Beer was sipped and a trip outside to the smoking area was discussed.

They departed to partake in the simultaneous noxious and fragrant activity of smoke inhalation. Tubes of dried leaves had never been so appealing.

I approached the tubby yet radiant familiar stranger at the bar. The Big Black Book of Horror was hanging at his side, clutched in a sweaty forepaw as if it was yesterday's newspaper rather than the key to abject terror. My soul quivered at the sight.

"Excuse me sir" my voice was shaky and I could feel patches of salty sweat begin to seep out from my armpits. "You're TV's Paul Ross, aren't you?". My stomach was doing the hurdles as I spoke to the great man.
Surely he would ignore me, or, hopefully, give me a curt backhanded slap across the face?

"Yes, yes I am" he replied. "Do you like my Big Black Book of Horror?" I lied and told him I did.

The thing strikes abject fear into my soul, as if stiletto darts of obsidian quartz were fired from a nailgun into my immortal self.

We shook hands and sipped our pints. Our eyes met and, for a fleeting moment, I detected an animal warmth in the Ross man's heart.

I was chilled to the bone.

He indulged in an impromptu round of either/ or- "Guinness or Beamish Red?" was what he asked me.

I didn't know what to do. I took a stab in the dark and told him Beamish. I don't know why- Guinness is my pint of choice.

A chill descended in the room as he told me it was the wrong answer. He handed me the Big Black Book of Horror and told me the role was now mine.

I stepped outside and knew what I had to do. I looked down the road and hailed a taxi. I left.

I never saw my friends again.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 13:47, Reply)

FAO Martin Clunes
We were on holiday in Cornwall, and had visited the little village where they film Doc Martin (not because of Doc Martin, but it was an interesting coincidence). We watched them filming a scene from across the bay, and saw whoever it was who was being filmed walk down some steps, say something, then walk back up the steps and film another take. After getting bored with this, we continued our walk around the village, and confined our tiniest of brushes with fame to our memories, filed under "Possible Postcard Material (non weather related)". However, when we were driving back to the caravan park, who should the gf's dad see in the rear view mirror than one Mr Clunes, returning I assume to either a homogenous travelling lodge or a picturesque little BnB.

Mr Clunes, I'd like to apologise on behalf of myself, my girlfriend and her brother for grinning like starstruck tits at you from a blue-grey Mondeo as you drove home from work. I'd also like to inform you that your windows aren't as tinted as you'd like, and we could all see you picking your nose.
(Dowbocop, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 13:46, Reply)

Aphex Twin
cheeky pearoast


“Pass me my squeezebox”.

“You what Richard? Your squeezebox?”

The Twin looked at me like I’d just done a poo on his best curtains and told me that yes, he wanted his squeezebox. Something to do with a tune.

The man’s a nutter- he’s my milkman and lives in a run down house near the ring road. This one time down the pub he’d been on the Gold Label, got drunk and puked in an ashtray- we’d never seen such chunky vom. The landlord got him to his feet and promptly barred him.

Later that day, during a hurried game of Dynamite Dan on my beloved Spectrum Plus 2 128k, I got a phone call.

It was the police.

They’d found him naked and painted blue, wandering near the woods. He was in the car, they were on their way round here.

They arrived at the door. Richard was blue and had a copper’s helmet covering ‘Stephen and the Twins’. He shivered, looked down the length of his nose, winked at me and continued squinting at me through his left eye.

I signed the paperwork and sent the policemen on their way.

“Such nice fellows!” I thought to myself.

Richard farted and told me he could read my thoughts. Nerds would never be reintroduced in sweetshops- Jawbreakers may have made a long overdue return, but Nerds, well, Nerds was a no fly zone for sweets fans.

I’d been thinking about crisps- Discos in fact, and the strangely named Frisps. He was close with sweets so I let the mistake pass.

I shed a tear and put the kettle on.

I returned and he was mumbling. Cheesesocks? Jeyecloths? What was it? I leaned in closer. Squeezebox!

I passed it to him, gave him my housekeys and turned my back on him.

I never saw my milkman again.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 13:45, 1 reply)

Beyoncé and Seafruit
I've always been something of a music obsessive, delighting in finding the smallest, most obscure bands going and raving on about them to anyone who'll listen. Barely any of them have ever amounted to much, or, if I'm quite honest, even been that good. Still, it did lead me to a chance encounter with the eponymous heroine of this post...

To set the scene, it's the mid-to-late 90s and Britpop is staggering towards a messy, sputtering death. Undeterred, I became a massive fan of the band Seafruit (not to be confused with Seafood - Oh! The derision if you did that! God I was a prick...) and noticed that somehow they'd managed to blag their way onto the Radio 1 roadshow tour.

Getting my friends together, we got the train from crappy small town Fareham to the bustling metropolis of Portsmouth, headed for the common and the throbbing beacon of excitement that was the Radio 1 Roadshow. Fuck! We might even get to see Simon Mayo!!

Had a quick look at who was playing onstage and spotted inexplicably popular Welsh rock-lite songsmiths Feeder miming away to their latest impersonation of a Cheerios advert. FUCK. We'd missed Seafruit. "Nevermind," chirps my mate, "they might be signing stuff backstage."

Round we go to the hallowed 'backstage' though if I'm completely honest the 'stage' was nothing more than a lorry with a fold down podium in it... nevertheless there's a gated off area with people signing stuff so off we trot. Can't even see who's signing stuff, but we join the back of a massive queue and wait patiently, eventually arriving at the front to see some load of Afro-American "soul" wailers who clearly think they're the dog's bollocks because they've got sunglasses on in the middle of a cloudy British summer. Thus goes the following interaction:

"Oh hey, have you got our latest single to sign?"
"Errr... no.... I was wondering if Seafruit were around anywhere, have you seen them?"

Turns out that Beyoncé doesn't really like being treated like a flourescent waistcoated helper. She scowled ferociously at me, informed me that they'd gone and in the same sentence moved onto the next person, showering them with praise for buying the latest single.

For anyone who's concerned about the ill effects that not getting to meet Seafruit may have had on me, don't worry, I met them later in the year at the Reading Festival and we talked about analogue synthesizers. Much more interesting than that bloody Beyoncé woman...
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Sat 10 Oct 2009, 11:24, 1 reply)

Wasted two hours.
I met A1 once, remember the little boyband with the 4 members (google or youtube, you'll get the idea), Ben was recently on Celebrity Big Brother... Anyways. These lot were twunts. After waiting for nearly 2 hours of my prepubescent life to see these bastards at my local shopping centre, who I had outgrown years before but felt the need to meet someone somewhat famous in my life, they signed the copy of their single I had purchased in the damn queue without saying a fucking word. Not. One. Word. No hello, no thanks for coming, nothing. Pricks. Waste of my life that I'll never get back. At least I have the satisfaction in knowing their careers went nowhere and they're all quickly going bald.
(kellysprinkles dying for a pee since, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 7:59, Reply)

Marti Pellow.
I worked as a chef. He was being a cunt. I told him to fuck off.

I should have punched the fucker.
( mark morrisons prison shoes I love Willie, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 6:56, 1 reply)

posh people swear too
I also did a freelance stint at Carlton TV and was working on the 6th floor. Melvyn Bragg got in my lift just after I had pressed all the buttons after 6. It was only when the doors had closed that he went to press for the 15th or something. There was a quiet pause and then the great man gently shook his head and muttered "for fucks sake". He never took his eyes off his shoes except for when the door opened on the sixth, when he looked up to see me grinning at him like a maniac. I had just ripped out a beauty. Didn't envy his jpourney much.
(kaptinkurtz, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 6:01, 1 reply)

send me back to the dark place
years ago, on first ever art school trip to that there london, we're staying in some godforsaken hellhole in Kings cross. Most of us tipped into the local pub to top up already significant blood alcohol levels and find that theres only one other person there. Alexei Sayle must have thought his worst nightmares had come to haunt him as 90 drunk teenagers blocked the only exit and shouted at each other "do you like sponge? I love sponge...". He did eventually get up the courage to shoulder barge his way through the massed throng, but I think we kept it going for a couple fo pints. I feel slightly sorry for him now, but at the time it was fucking hilarious.
(kaptinkurtz, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 5:57, Reply)

Doctor Heckle
I used to volunteer at a theatre near where I lived in Salford, taking the tickets on the door and showing people to seats, for which I got to see the performance for free, so I saw loads of difficult to get in to performances.
One night there was a guy called Richard Hawley playing his songs. He finishes his first and starts talking to the audience;
Hawley: You havin' a good time? You're all a bit quiet. Normally I've had a bit of abuse by this point..
Voice In Audience: Gerrof! Ye're rubbish! Play us summut we know!
Hawley: Sometimes people think I've got a plant in the audience when someone does that - Mate, with you, I've got a vegetable.
I thought I recognised the voice of the heckler and a little while later someone came to get out for some drinks. It was Christopher Eccleston.
Me (pointing an accusing finger): That was YOU earlier, wasn't it?
Eccleston (looking hunted): Me? What? Er...
That whole incident kept me amused for a good while. I'm easily pleased.
(sleekloon Curing Cancer one cell at a time., Sat 10 Oct 2009, 4:45, Reply)

Timmy Fucking Mallet
as you may have noticed, i dont like the twunt i've mentioned above. but i have had the pleasure of screaming "CUNT!!!" in his face after being dragged out for a drink in the local cattle market. he was there to do some apperance, but that made my night. bloody mallet's mallet and all that toss....

got right on my tits for years!
(misanthropic_lobster scuttled back to his cave on, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 3:56, Reply)

Susan George
Around the time she started knocking about in Eastenders myself and two friends were at some kind of national park in Somerset after just having had cream teas.

Standing by the car finishing cigarettes we noticed Susan George standing on top of the short wall in front of us, facing us, taking photos of the scenic view behind us. Probably no more than a car length away. She was with some guy off of Emmerdale, or similar.

Conversation went down, well within earshot of her, and looking straight at her.

"Fellas, check it out, it's that Susan George bird".
"I know her face from somewhere, she looks familiar".
"Yeah, she's in Eastenders at the moment".
"Wow, a famous person".

She notices us staring and bade us a friendly, if a little nervous "Hello".

"Didn't she get her tits out in Straw Dogs?".

Susan?? Susan, where are you going??
(Jboy, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 3:45, Reply)

Irvine Welsh
When he was giving readings for "Porno", one was at the nightclub I then worked in. The club had two parts, an upstairs where most people hung out and a downstairs with toilets, stage and dancefloor. While we were waiting for Irvine to come onstage, I dutifully queued at the downstairs bar but it was busy-busy, so I nashed upstairs to the quieter bar there. As the barman poured me yet nother in a series of pints of lager, I said, "Where the fuck's that Irvine Welsh! Everyone's waiting for him." The barman passed me the pint and mumbled, "He's standing right next to you..."

Signed my copy of Trainspotting as well. Nice bloke. Does accents really well.
(McChinaman banned, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 3:40, Reply)

My grandfather punched Franklin Roosevelt.
Damn it sir, stand up when my wife enters the room.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 3:33, 4 replies)

Sir Bobby
I should start by saying I cannot claim this story; I'm not the central character, I wasn't even there when it happened. It's a story I read in either a newspaper or online, and if anyone actually connected with this happens to come along, by all means write your own rather more first hand account and take full credit.

It's not even being rude, more a bit of Derren Brown style mind-fuckery. It is also, I think, a very charming anecdote featuring a great man.

  A young lad, let's call him Jimmy, has been waiting in line for two hours, to get his booked signed by his hero, Sir Bobby Robson. The queue slowly moves forward, and finally Jimmy is face to face with the footballing legend.
  He hands him the book, and as Sir Bobby signs it, makes some smalltalk.
"So how many books have you signed today Sir Bobby?"
"Oh hundreds lad, hundreds" came the reply.
He finished signing the book, and Jimmy went on his way.

  A couple of hours later, Sir Bobby looked up from where he was signing, and saw Jimmy stood in front of him for the second time.
"Have you just been round and queued up again for all that time?" asked the former England boss.
"Er yes, it's just, well you signed my book..."

This is how the inscription read:

To Jimmy
All the best
Bobby Hundreds
(bacontrout got ska, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 2:50, 2 replies)

Celebrities
Oldest daughter, let's call her Georgia, for that is her name, was in Newcastle at 52 North, a bar named after the latitude of the smallest city in Tyne and Wear , when a hunchback by the name of Craig Bellamy asked if he could buy her a drink, (darlin'). No thank you, sez my angel. D'you know who I am, darlin'? Oh yes, sez my red and white baby, and lets him wear her pint of Carlsberg! Time to go MADam, say bouncers! Time to go to the Metro-Centre, sez I, what can I buy ya baby?
(mackembarsteward, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 2:12, 4 replies)

I'm not mentioning a name so don't ask.
Because he'd kill me.

But having recently embarked on a hot naked affair with someone from work (oops) he mentioned that he'd been a D-list celeb in the past, in the UK (I'm in Oz). He wants to keep this under wraps cos it is proof that he lied on his CV to get his current job.

Naturally, I wanted to know if he was telling the truth, so hopped on to my old friend google to see what I could find.

I found a QOTW answer about how shite he was when someone here saw him live, and realised I'd read it before but didn't even twig that it was this guy despite his full name being in the post. I didn't even make the connection.

Weird.
(Angie the Redneck Wonder, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 1:38, 2 replies)