I used to work in the world of London theatre in a non-glitzy capacity
and as such have bumped heads (once quite literally with Lee Mead off of Joseph) with quite a few people who have been stroked by the sometimes-less-than-discriminatory brush of fame. Brenda Blethyn told me that she loved my skirt, and Erin O'Connor gave me canapes and posh chocolate (no-one else was eating them; it was a model's meeting.) Ian McKellan also used to swing by on occasion - he's taller than you would expect, and was unfailingly nice. Andrew Lloyd Webber also comes across better in person than I'd thought from his rather smarmy public image.

I think my favourite famous encounter, though, was with Henry Goodman (a full-on old-school theatre luvvie) when he was in Fiddler on the Roof at the Savoy. I was coming in the stage door just as he was dashing out for a cheeky fag in between scenes. He grabbed me firmly by the arms. It was less scary than it sounds - I'm fairly petite, but he was at least half a head shorter than me.

'WHO the FUCK are YOU?' he demanded, roaring into my face in a mighty yet querulous boom, like a cross between Brian Blessed and the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland.

Gabbling, and more than a little flustered, I explained that I worked for the actor's union and was just there to put up a notice regarding a meeting. I brandished the poster as proof. He practically snatched it from my hands, before handing it back with a Wildean flourish.

'Well,' cried the tiny Jewish stage legend in a thousand-yard voice, 'I suppose SOMEBODY has to!' And with that he realised my arms, roared again, and disappeared round the corner.

I pissed myself laughing all the way back to the office.
(jennymnemonic, Mon 12 Oct 2009, 14:12, Reply)