my 'mate' Dave
was in a bar in town one night and realised he was adjacent to 'Nigel Kennedy of cooking' Gary Rhodes. Dave is a massive gobshite who works in advertising sales - no stammering and not knowing what to say, for Dave.

'I had my birthday in your restaurant last year Gary, I loved it and so did all my friends. Do you fancy a line?'

Apparently the look Gary gave him would have curdled milk. Perhaps that was the idea and he was attempting some kind of proto-Blumenthal molecular gastronomy, but with Dave's face.

Or, perhaps not.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 17:18, Reply)

It began in 1965
It was a balmy autumn I first caught a glimpse of the woman who would take my heart. There she was on the front page of the newspaper, her beautiful blond hair framing her delicate yet alluring face. She was quite the nations obsession, yet I felt a real connection with her. In fact I became infatuated, and set about devoting the next 37 years of my life towards meeting her when she would fall in love with me and we could finally be together.

Her hair reminded me of all the big American singers of the time, her dark come to bed eyes looked into my soul from every picture I could get my hands on. I soon built up quite a collection of pictures and articles which I would pore through to learn as much as I could about the blond bombshell. I would lock myself in my room when mother and father were listening to the Archers and neatly arrange the images in a semicircle on the floor. I would then get naked and kneel in the centre before slowly manipulating my member betwixt my thumb and forefinger into a state of arousal, engorged with my ruby red blood, the veins popping out at the side as the cock ring worked its magic and made my mushroom head strain at the skin in whence it was contained, with my ample foreskin slid back over and hugging the rigid shaft of my love truncheon. I would spend every evening in this state reading and learning every little thing I could about my heroine before plunging myself down upon my hand crafted anal invader and fwapping my cum cannon until i would shoot my load over her face. Being in the mid 60’s I didn’t have access to a laminator, but I can vouch that carefully spread layers of man milk dried at room temperature will create a varnish like protective layer on magazine and newspaper clippings.

After her initial thrust into the limelight she disappeared for a few years. In 1972 a relationship with her then boyfriend nearly turned into a marriage but thankfully that didn’t happen, I could still become her first and only husband. After coming that close to losing her to another man I started writing her letters. In these letters I would detail explicitly how she made me feel, how it came about that I could not get erect without having a picture of her in front of me and how I could not ejaculate unless her baby blue eyes and face where on the floor awaiting the eruption from my pump action shotgun. I would outline my wildest fantasies to her, how i wanted her to tie me up and have her wicked way with me, teasing me before impaling herself on my luncheon truncheon. She never replied to my letters, sometimes I even suspected that she didn’t read them or even get them, but I kept sending them, deep down knowing that she savoured every word of my prose and confident that she would lie in her bed at night with 4 fingers inside herself. I used to wait outside of where she lived but she never seemed to come or go from her house. Still I hadn’t met her.

Almost 20 years later, in 1986 she make a huge comeback, and the British public once more took her to their hearts, she was more mature now, and a haunting look in her eyes once again beckoned me to restart my ritualistic bouts of self love. I tried to get to meet her on several occasions, but could never get close, the press were always hounding her – it was like a witch hunt, I for one don’t know how she could deal with being in the public eye so much, I think it might have sent me a little crazy, but not her. After her initial resurgence she floated in and out of the public eye over the next few years. During this period I started suffering from erectile dysfunction and my daily seed spillage ceased. Slowly my infatuation waned and the regularity of my letters was interrupted, a weekly offering turned into a monthly note.

In November 2002 I wrote my last letter to her, 30 years I had written to her and not so much as a reply, she must never have loved me or she wouldn’t keep me waiting all this time.
Then.
The.
World.
Stopped.
I first saw the news when I was in Hull on an excursion with my Mother. A Heart Attack. Overnight. Nothing they could do. She was DEAD!

My world collapsed in on me, even though I had convinced myself she didn’t matter I now knew deep down my love for her was the strongest it had ever been. The emotional connection I had with her had transcended all manifestations of physical love, yet now we could never be together, I would never be able to hold her in my arms, never be able to withdraw my member from her anal cavities before plunging it down her throat in an attempt to make her gag on her own faecal matter.

I spent the next 4 years in mourning, coming to terms with her death and her absence from my life. In August 2006 I wrote her one last letter, in it I poured my heart, every inch of my soul before also emptying my seed from my now working again phallus into the envelope and sealing it. I posted the envelope with no name on it. Dropping the envelope into that postbox I came a little in my pants. A little part of me died that day, but the healing process sending that letter triggered has allowed me to move forwards, and slowly day by day I have rebuilt my life. My mother died in October last year, and I am now alone in this world, but it gives me strength to think that some day, when my time comes that She will be waiting for me and we will meet at last and spend the rest of eternity together. I only hope, that somehow she will know, that when we meet I will not have to utter the words, ‘Myra Hindley, I love you more now than I ever have, let me fuck you pink.’
 
(little lord muthafuckin fauntleroy, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 17:10, 6 replies)

Jailbait
Some background: I've always been tall for my age and as a result have often been mistaken to be older than I am, including getting into pubs from the age of 14.

Some time around 95/96, age 16, myself and a couple of mates went to see The Prodigy at Glasgow Barrowlands. We loved at the time and I had a particular soft spot for both Liam and Leroy. However, we were but poor school children in Edinburgh and as a result, had taken the cheapest option of getting through to Glasgow - the concert coach.

There we were, dancing away like loons on the front row, when Maxim pulled me out the crowd to dance on stage. After flailing about like a idiot for a few minutes (with only one shoe on as the other had come off when I was pulled out the crowd), Leroy wandered over and asked whether I wanted to come to the after party.

I would love to now tell you that we went along and had a night of drunken debauchery. Unfortunately, what in hindsight may not be my coolest moment, I informed him that "I need to get my coach back to Edinburgh. I've got school in the morning". He promptly ran to the other side of the stage and I was bundled back into the audience. I often wonder what could have happened that night!

When I met them again at Glastonbury, he didn't remember me or give me a second chance at a night of debauchery.

On a separate note, about the same time, I met the president of Croatia and ended up on his private jet (long story). As I wasn't expected, there wasn't a seat for me and I had to sit in the toilet for take off and landing. I had a good rifle through the drawers, but there was nothing of interest.
(batgirl, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:54, Reply)

tosh from the bill
once in lincoln i saw the actor that used to play DC tosh lines in the bill.
i followed him around for a bit until he went into a kebab shop.
he's dead now.
( bigshape like a glove!, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:24, 3 replies)

My daughter the Primeval nut
My daughter is 8, and for at least the last year and a half her biggest obsession has been Primeval (which may be a bit poo, but at least it's not High School Fucking Musical). She goes a bit loopy about it, reciting the list of characters like a mantra and writing little Primeval booklets and posters. The only time I've ever known her to stop misbehaving in response to a threat was when I reminded her that Primeval was coming on soon and she might not be allowed to see it.

A friend of mine who writes Doctor Who novels has just written a Primeval one, and he's named a character after my daughter. She nearly died when she heard.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:06, 10 replies)

"the 'lengths' you've gone to"?

Not even one.

Still, in my defence...it was a bit difficult to swim at the time cos my arse was ripped to pip.

and also, I was dead.

Love,

Stuart Lubbock.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:01, 1 reply)

Not biggest fan, almost the opposite...
Back when I could be bothered will all the hassle and expense, I used to be in a band with quite a large following, and indeed quite a large membership; at one point there were 12 band members, but usually only 9.

The singer once went on holiday to Greece and in true comical style dived into the swimming pool on the first day of arrival in the mad excitement of being away from home.

Of course, he found very quickly that there was only 3 inches of water in the pool thanks to someone the day before laying a nice underwater cable - and not for the purposes of data transfer.

This nearly broke his neck, and his holiday was pretty much ruined. I don't know much about Greek hospitals, but if they're much like ours, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have been much fun.

Anyway, as he was laying at the bottom of the pool in 3 inches of water, an innocent bystander who goes by the name Vic Reeves, jumps in the pool and gets him to relative safety.

Not only this, but this bystander also travelled to hospital with him, and actually took gifts and checked in at the hospital over the next couple of weeks to see if the chap was ok.

They became quite good friends.

Fast forward a fair few months, and we're gigging at a usual 6 weeks spot, when Vic decided to patronise the place with his precence...along with his brother, who incidently wears the exact same clothes and glasses, and presumably snorts similar quatities of Columbian marching powder - the eveidence was clear to all with eyes!

Vic has a quick word with the singer, and duly comes on stage to do a quick rendition of something shite no doubt (can't remember the song), whilst he's stomping in that stomping way that we've all seen Vic do in the style of a club singer.

At the end of the song, and revelling in the applause, he hurls the mic stand down on the floor...and straight into a nice brand new pint of wife beater that a friend had kindly bought me and placed up on the stage for me to pick up at the end of the song.

Vic looks straight at me (or through me might be a more accurate description), shrugs and goes back to his table with his brother (if it wasn't his brother, then it was certainly a clone of some sort).

So Vic, whilst I am not a big fan of yours, I WILL start to stalk you soon if you don't bloody buy me a pint next time I bump into you.

You know I know where you live, and I see you just about every other bloody weekend - it's like he's stalking me actually!
(dchurch bah, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 15:45, Reply)

My sister is Donovan's greatest fan
and a few years ago I took her to see him perform.

We sang along, she swooned, and I insisted on hanging around to meet him afterwards.

He didn't keep us waiting long and was charm itself when he did roll up. I told him, 'This lady has been a fan of yours since your very first single!'

Donovan acted suitably flattered and graciously signed our tickets, posed for a photo and gave Sis a kiss. She was awestruck - good job I was there to do the talking - and was floating on air for at least a week.

So Sis didn't have to make any effort at all to meet her hero except wait 40 years for her baby sister to grow up!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 15:27, 2 replies)

DJ Shadow
Around 2001 Shadow was on tour to promote his then new album "Private Press".

My much more in the loop friend who was living in Bristol at the time managed to get tickets for us to go see him at Bristol Academy. Which is a rather odd venue but absolutely brilliant.

Anyway, having watched the gig with my mates and been double whammied by Thom Yorke appearing to do "Rabbit in your headlights", we duly trundled out of the gig and headed towards the nearest pub. All of us except me...

I ended up sat on top of a phone box watching the stage door with about a hundred other people waiting for the great(actually very small) Shadow to appear, before running over handing him my ticket and telling him "Organ Donor is my favourite track of all time" not one of the cool tracks like "What hip-hop looks like in '96" (a bit of a mouthful I admit) but, the most played and commercial of all his tunes. Luckily he just said thank you and signed my ticket which I still have and am quite proud of.
( Ril3y is a brit abroad.. bring on the Stella / Asahi, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 14:53, 4 replies)

Oh Jamie, Jamie.
I'm a big lad. I'm 6ft 2 & arond 19-20 stone. I'm bloody lovely & soft as shite but I do have that menacing look about me. Anyway, around this time last year, I was just leaving my local Thoroughgoods when 2 young kids were messing about in the doorway making it awkward to get out. "scuse me matey" I say in my chirpiest voice & turn to one side to let them in, they apologise & enter the shop & I turn back to leave. The next bit seemed to go veeeeeery slowly. Standing in front of me is there papa, none other than Liverpool legend & local resident Jamie Carragher! He's by no means a small fella, but when I'm standing on a step adding 8-10 inches to me & as wide as the door frame, even "Our Jamie" as brave as he is, looked like he'd just shit in his pants! We both stood in silence for the longest 2 seconds of my life! "Sorry Mate" I said panicking whilst trying to still look cool, & stepped aside. "Aaah, thanks mate" said Jamie, stepping inside... I didn't leave it at this. Trying (& failing) to be cool as fuck I say the gayest line ever "No Jamie... Thank you" just stop Dr Fishfinger, pretend you where taking the piss, he won't know! NEVER!!! The next bit capped off the the most bullseye-esque (good but shit) moment of my life... I patted him..... On the arse! Then I just walked away, he didn't say a word.
Apologies for length & shitness
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 14:18, 3 replies)

Carol Decker...
... the once ravishing but now slightly 'weathered' redhead from T'Pau, kissed me at a gig. I waited in line to meet her, waited till last, hoping to get the most time with her.

It worked. We kissed- three times, yes- three! One peck on the cheek, then a little chat, an autograph, and then once again on both cheeks, showbiz style but proper smackers. I was in awe, and tenting ever so slightly.

The cheek that was kissed twice (the right one, fact fans) was neither washed nor shaved for a week, until my other half told me to grow up and reminded me that she stopped be a ravishing redhead sometime in the late 80s - this encounter was, IIRC, 2001.

Didn't stop me thinking thoughts not suitable to mention here.
(randomstupidname would really like this signature field to be bigge, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:53, 6 replies)

I was a budding young artist/sculpter
at the height of my creative peak.
I had just received a phone call from my then-girlfriend telling me Out Of Nowhere that I wasn't enough,
"I Need A Man, I feel just like a Prisoner Of Love" she calmly informed me.
"I'm not giving you up" I spluttered.
"It's too late"
I pleaded "You Can't Walk Away From Love", but she was having none of it.
It was over.
Mi Buen Amor had left me. There was only one thing I could do. Use my talent to sculpt a large statue of the woman who had brought us together.

It was Gloria(ous)
And that is how i created my big-Estefan.
(TheColonel, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:40, Reply)

Bruce Jones aka Les Battersby

I haven't but if anyone happens to have a strange/bizarre crush on the ginger one, then go to the De Trafford Arms in Alderley Edge, he's in there most lunch times.

Nice bloke actually.



(Kip, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:13, 2 replies)

Boris Johnson...
Not that I'm his greatest fan. Far from it.

However, when I was still at uni, Boris managed to write a book all on his own! Well done Boris! It's called "72 Virgins" is about the adventures of a dashing MP, who owns his own bicycle, and his attempts to overthrow a terrorist attack on the House of Commons. Or something. It's not very good.

Anyway, to launch the book he did a short talk, Q+A session and a signing at my uni. I don't know who managed to cock up, but it wasn't particularly well-publicised, so they threw a bunch of tickets at any passing student, to make it look like a successful, well-attended event. He was quite funny (we were drunk though), and I was so moved by his speech that I bought a copy of the book, and asked him to write "cripes!" in it. He did. What a nice chap.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:09, 2 replies)

Terry Pratchett was probably the coolest
The only deliberate attempt to meet anyone was a book signing with Terry Pratchett at the Waterstones in Kingston. He was very nice and wrote "Dear Claire, remember the yodelling stick insect!" in my copy of Thief of Time.

The best accidental sighting of a famous person by me was seeing Richard O'Brian in Center Parcs when I was 6 (maybe he actually lived in the swimming pool that looked like the Crystal Dome).

Also, I went to Reading festival with my fella, Ed, a couple of years ago to see Muse. We didn't meet Matt Bellamy (although I did manage to be right at the front when they played Top of the Pops, he was wearing a ladies' top as I recall). However, Ed was watching Wolfmother whilst waiting for me to get back from the loo and a bloke next to him remarked that they were rather good, to which Ed concurred. They carried on watching the band for a bit and the bloke wandered off. Ed then realised he'd been standing next to the drummer from Dirty Pretty Things. Which was nice.

Finally, we went on a college trip to see some prestigious daytime talk show with Gloria Hunniford presenting, which was as boring as it sounds except she had Harry Hill on and he gave me a funny look because I was doing an impression of Wallace from Wallace & Gromit for reasons which escape me.

Oh and my mum made friends with Bradley Walsh on holiday in Dubai and my dad once got mistaken for Pat Jennings at a train station in Preston.
(claireyfairy There's a smell in here that will outlast religion, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:56, Reply)

When life imitates art...

I feel that at this point, I must re-iterate the question of this QotW. Although we have been treated to some wonderful tales this week, the requested subject matter is not ”tell us about fleeting meetings with celebrities”…It is:

“Tell us about the lengths you've gone to in order to show your devotion to your heroes. Just how big a fan are you.”

‘Big Fan’ eh?....’Devotion’ is it?...’Length’ you want?

Well this dear reader, is my story…of just how far a man is willing to go.

You think you know real love? Well let me tell you, dear reader…you don’t know shit.

I gave my heart, my soul, my money…and spoonfuls of my manfat to someone…just because they looked like my all-time favourite star of the silver screen.

This was a few years ago now…and from the moment I saw her alone in the pub I was instantly taken aback. She was an angel…a vision, immaculately resplendent, and the fact that she was wearing grunge-style clothes and no make up, Her likeness was so uncanny, it took my breath away. I was besotted.

I realised immediately that this was going to be the closest I would EVER get to realising my lifelong dream…and if I was to accomplish this incredible ambition, I was first going to have to shed my awkward personality and crippling shyness. I was going to have to ‘man the fuck up’ and give it a shot!

I downed a few vodkas to give me that boost of ‘Dutch courage’ (a bit like a ‘Dutch Oven’, only with slightly less farting in bed and holding heads under the covers)

And then I approached her tentatively…stuttering nervously as I offered to buy her a drink.

She gazed up at me…and I saw at close quarters that just like my idol, she had sublime bone structure, that trademark ‘floppy fringe’, and wide eyes like glistening pools of pristine loveliness. She broke her perfect pout only to deftly reply:

“Ah, mais Oui!”,

‘Fucking get in there!’ I thought to myself. This was even more perfect than I could possibly imagine. Everybody and his pet dog knows that the French are ruder and hotter than Chubby Brown’s swampy arse-cress on a balmy day in August.

She spoke with an accent so deliciously decadent…it was as if every word was purposefully trying to send my throbbing knobbly obelisk busting out of the bottom of my left trouser leg so it could waft triumphantly at gobsmacked passers-by.

I instantly set about ‘wooing’ her (Read: stalking). I camped outside her flat, sang songs to her window, and sent her continental chocolates and DVDs every day. When she finally agreed to go on a date, I pulled out all the stops and spunked my life savings on jewellery, fine wine and souvenirs of all things French for her..

And by jove, it certainly did the trick. She said she had never experienced such pure animalistic devotion before, and she was powerless to resist . I knew that all my efforts were worthwhile as I watched with purest glee as she led me to her boudoir, whipped her kex off, stuck her legs in the air and flung her flange flesh at me like a fizzing flap-filled philharmonic fanfare. This was the stuff dreams are made of!

She well and truly succumbed – (in that order…’suc, cum, bed’). The oral acrobatics she performed were clinical and intense, the expertise exquisite…and every time I gazed adoringly down upon her enigmatic head gobbling on my cock like a dog chomping hot peanut butter, I would be whisked away to my darkest fantasies… wistfully imagining what her phenomenal doppleganger’s technique would really be like. I didn’t know how it could be possible, but I just knew it would be even better.

And these thoughts alone were enough to send my sploogey electric rope shooting straight to the back of her gag reflex like a todger powered tartare sauce torpedo.

Thrice a day, we would always make love in only the missionary position – even when I shoe-horned it up her wrongun’…this made it even more special for me. Although She was keen to experiment, I insisted on that one position…I wanted to watch her face writhe and contort with ecstasy as I plunged enthusiastically into her…pounding harder and deeper in the belief that somehow my passion could reach such fevered extremes that perhaps…somehow… the real object of my affections could feel each splurging grunt-tastic megathrust and just perhaps…wherever they were…they would go ever-so-slightly bandy legged without even knowing the real reason why…

As you can imagine, Life was simply blissful. Eventually, She fell in love with me. But like all men who don’t realise a good thing when they’ve got it, I let her slip through my fingers. I tried to change her – constantly making her dress and act more and more like my true obsession. I was with her for six spaff-splattered months before one fateful evening when we were cuddled up on the sofa watching ‘Le Hussard sur le toit ‘ (for the umpteenth time)...

As her hand romantically razzed up and down my raging custard-coughing cucumber like the veritable clappers, I accidentally blurted out the wrong name…the real name of the person who was in my thoughts. I then decided I could keep my secret no longer, and revealed the truth about why I was going out with her.

She was devastated…giving me a solemn speech about not being able to ‘live a lie’. Within a week she had returned to France forever. I wept as she climbed aboard the train...wishing it was me that she was ‘climbing aboard’…one more time. But it was too late…she was gone…It was over.

I never fully recovered…or loved again.

So people…they say you should ‘never meet your heroes’…yet nobody tells you of the perils and suffering of falling in love with lookalikes. Let my heartbreak be a warning to you all.

Finally…There were two tragic ironies to this tale. First of all, despite her having what I perceived to be flawless beauty, she said I was the first man who had ever approached her…a bit weird that – I’d always considered that a girl who looked exactly like Gerard Depardieu would be beating the fellas away with a shitty stick. Hey ho.

But secondly, the strangest (and sexiest) thing of all was…I found out later that she was only with me in the first place to get a Green Card.

What are the odds?
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:52, 10 replies)

Note to self
Next time you find yourself sat next to footballing legend John Barnes on the Virgin Pendolino service from London to Liverpool, it is not advisable to sing "World in Motion" under your breath for 2 hours.

Nor is it appreciated when said footballer leaves his seat to then lean over to the chap across the aisle and bellow "Let himself go a bit, hasn't he."

Just saying...
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:41, 5 replies)

Nothing particularly funny, well, except them, obviously.
Went to the last night of Eddie Izzard's 'Sexie' tour at Wembley, must have been about 17, and was in the queue to meet him afterwards.
We got there at 11pm...by 2am, all but me, my best mate Joe and 2 others had given up and gone home, but not us, we were determined.
At about 2.30am, we hear high heels, and an apologetic Eddie comes round the corner. He gives us all a hug, poses for photos and says "I am so sorry, we are having a wrap party, and nobody told me anyone was waiting!".
He then invites us back to the party for a few beers, and yes, he is as funny and mad normally.

Also, with the same friend, saw Ross Noble just wondering through my home town as we were heading back from school.
He wasn't hugely well-known by then, just touring fairly small venues. Apparantly he often explores the town he is performing in to see if there is anything he can reference.
My friend said "You're that comedian fella" to which Noble said "My name is Ross Noble, and I am funny and strange", saluted us, and departed at speed.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:39, 1 reply)

I once saw
Jeremy Paxman in the Rain Bar in Manchester.

Camera Phones had just been invented so I followed him to the toilets to see if I could get a photo of us two.

Realising at the last second how uncouth this may have looked, i waited for him outside the Gents. 5 mins pass, and out steps Paxman, at which point i realise how red cheeked and stinkingly p!ssed he was. I didn’t ask for a picture, instead i just watched him attempt to walk up a flight of stairs back up to the bar, with his chin pointing at his chest and an umbrella used as a walking stick for balance. With each 2 steps up following a step backwards and down.

I almost could hear the music to step toe and son in the background.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:38, Reply)

1 2 3 4 I declare a PUN WAR!
I'd been having crippling headaches for some time when I was called for a radical new test at the hospital.

Bit weird really, all they did was blow air at my face for about 20 minutes!

Aparrently it was a "Migraine-test fan".

/coat
/veal
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:20, 1 reply)

I’ve taken Celebrity stalking to a murderous new level...

My quest is to create the ultimate superstar shag doll from the body parts of existing celebrities.

I’ve started with the head first, and so far I have managed to obtain one of the beady peepers from the lead singer of Ultravox, who composed the classic ‘Vienna’…

Then, to 'sex things up a bit', I've managed to extract the pointy, ‘bird like’ nose from the saucy latino singer from 80’s pop sensation ‘The Miami Sound Machine’…

It’s a work in progress...but that’s about as far as I’ve got. It’s just ‘Eye M.Ure, Beak Estefan’.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:06, 5 replies)

Bernard Cribbins
I once saw Bernard Cribbins. I said "Its Bernard Cribbins!"
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 11:57, Reply)

Nicholas Lyndhurst
I saw Nicolas Lyndhurst enjoying a pint in the beer garden at a local pub. Having had a fair few myself, I thought I'd be brave and shout out to him.
Imagine the horror on my girlfriends face when I 'accidentally' shouted 'Rodney you wanker!". He actually smiled back and gave a knowing nod.

My new hobby is shouting out incorrect catch phrases to celebrities. Steve Davis, the snooker player, was greeted as he walked into a supermarket with a cry of "one-hundred-and-eeeeiiiiigggghhhtttyyy" as I pointed excitedly at him.

Rolf Harris visited a local school, so I took the opportunity to go up to him and say, "Can you tell what it's meant to be at the moment?" in a dodgy Australian accent.

The final one, was when I saw Ainsley Harriot strolling around on Oxford Street and I shouted 'Awooga' at him. He looked confused.

I really want to me Arnold Schwarzeneggar so I can say, "I'll be back soon".
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 11:42, 7 replies)

(Sir) Tim Berners-Lee
'nuff said...
( snee held his breath since, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 11:41, 6 replies)

Insulting Bob Geldof
The small town I currently reside in is also the home of Sir Bob Gelfof. Now, Sir Bob has lived here long enough that most local people are aware he is around and pay little or no attention to him. He gets no special treatment about the town, and has to queue up for his shopping in tesco just like everyone else.

Just after I finished school, my first job was pulling pints in a pub which was great fun. Sir Bob used to use this pub as his local as it is walking distance from his house. One evening as were just calling time and the punters were thinking about making their way home, Sir Bob sidles over and asks for a final pint for the night. No problem, pour his drink and place it down on the bar.

For some reason, to this day still unknown to me, rather than say 'that is £2.50 please' I just said in a slightly pleading voice and a not very convincing Irish accent "Give us your fockin' money!" The world stood still. I realized the gravity of what I had just said, I had just mocked one of the most famous charity fundraisers in the world. Luckily Bob cracked up and asked my name. We had a chat at the bar for a bit and after I finished my shift he invited me over for a couple of post shift beers.

We chatted about all sorts of stuff, including how I didn't really like the Boomtown Rats, thought Bono was a bit of a twat and how I am totally obsessed with Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' in which Geldof had a major part. I came in for a shift later on that week only to find a copy of 'The Wall' behind the bar signed by Geldof with the inscription 'Anthropos, I gave you my fucking money!'

Sadly a horrid pikey housemate stole my DVD and probably sold it. On the upside I still see Bob about town, he always says hi and remembers my name.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 10:29, 3 replies)

The Tube, Playing with the Kids, and Louis Theroux
On my way home on the tube yesterday I had a bizzare, fan-related encounter.

EUSTON

Sweating like a rapist I clamber onto the tube, find a seat - fuck me! - sit down. Start playing Risk on my phone.

MORNINGTON CRESCENT

A bloke gets on and sits opposite. I glance up at him and recognise him instantly. I perk up a bit. Its none other than uber-documentary maker, bumbling Brit abroad, Louis Theroux. Bit of a coincidence - I'd just watched his latest documentary on the i player the previous night. It was a great documentary, about a hospital for kiddy-fiddlers in California. So, being a gobby twat, I decided to show my appreciation.

As we're rattling towards Camden Town deep in the bowels of North London, I say:

"Excuse me, mate - Excuse me."

I get his attention, and the attention of just about everyone else in the carriage. For some unknown reason people just don't fucking talk to each other on the tube. If you talk to someone they tend to look at you all wild eyed and offer to give you their wallet.

Anyway, after I'd grabbed Louis attention I say:

"I really loved that peadophile thing. Just wanted to say good work, mate." And I sit back with a knowing smile and a slight nod of admiration.

And Louis looks at me with utter confusion and disgust. He buries his head in his paper.

Rude cunt, I think. And then I start to feel the eyes of every fucking body in the carriage burn into my skin...

And just as we pull into

CAMDEN TOWN

I realise with utter unadulterated fucking horror that this man is not, in point of fact, Louis Theroux...

...he just looks an awful lot like him.

The next seven-and-a-half-minutes (yep, I counted every fucking second of that journey), travelling up to my gaff in Tufnell Park were fucking horrible...

...I had a carriage full of strangers gawping at me, thinking I was some kind of peado, who had just given his full, frank, very public and extreamly vocal support to another ...

...dirty

...fucking

...peado...


(Nadgers!)
( SpankyHanky, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 10:23, 26 replies)

Right, I'll tell you an anecdote.
In 1974 I was catching the London train from Crewe station.

It was very crowded; I found myself in a last-minute rush for the one remaining seat beside a tall, good-looking man with collar-length hair. It was the 70s; Buckaroo!

I looked up and saw it was none other than Peter Purves; it was the height of his Blue Peter career.

He said, "You jammy bastard" and quick as a flash, I replied, "Don't be blue, Peter!" Needless to say, I had the last laugh.

Now fuck off!
(mark schmark, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 10:17, 1 reply)

Fred Dibner
An erstwhile mate of mine was once walking down Radcliffe road in Bolton with a couple ofhis buddies, when they happened to see Fred Dibner in his garden.

"Ello Fred1!" shouts my mate.
"Awright lads" replies Fred and walks over - cup of tea in his oily hand.
"Ohh.. Tah Fred" says mate cheekily, "Don't mind if I do" and makes a joking gesture as though assuming the Tea was for him.

Fred apparently chuckled, said "Cheeky bugger", and handed the tea over to my shocked mate. Fred then enquired as to how the other two liked their tea, and nipped inside to get 3 more cuppas.

They sat on the side of the road talking about steam-power and how sad the demise of the mills was... and then said polite and grateful goodbyes and went about their ways.

I'd like to think that oneday I'd be as chilled and approachable as Fred - albeit without the celebrity status.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 9:26, 6 replies)