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This is a question I'm your biggest Fan

Tell us about your heroes. No. Scratch that.

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?

and we've already heard the fan jokes, thankyou

(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:31)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 1

This question is now closed.

The posts about war heroes have reminded me…

About how some truly great and selfless people walk amongst us all the time and we don’t bat an eyelid.

My best mate died of cancer 10 years ago nearly to the day…He was 26

The nurses who cared for him during his final weeks were not just heroes, they were saints.

There is not enough money in the world that would make me do their job. I’m too much of a coward. I believe it is something you are, not something you do.

They take it in their stride. We take it for granted.

When he died, instead of spending money on flowers or a charity, everybody contributed to a fund which was handed over to the Nurses who had looked after him, to spend on whatever they wished.

As one, they donated it straight back to the Children’s ward.

We are not worthy.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 12:04, 3 replies)
It is like I so already know him ...
... I know a Hollywood star's Mother and Sister.

If I saw him in the street would he know me?

Or call the cops?
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 11:51, Reply)
Not me, but a twat I know
Had this horrid fixation with the Darkness. I had no idea who this terrible band were until they did a free gig in London. My friend was bawling in the line for the autographs because she couldn't believe she was about to meet Justin Hawkins! NEVER have I wanted to attack someone so badly in my life! I found myself edging away in the autograph que, which I only joined to chat up the person with the nice arse in front of me!!!

She couldn't even let me do that though.

Stupid friend kept fucking distracting the person I was trying to chat up with her incessant wailing!

This did not bide well with trippeh as I kept getting so close to getting a phone number....yet so far away! Hot person looked over and said in a creeped-out tone "is SHE a friend of yours???"

Idiot friend kept calling over to me to literally hold her hand because she was "getting overwhelmed by breathing the same air" as Justin fucking Hawkins! I mean....have you SEEN the twunt?? This does not look good! There goes my chances of getting a phone number as she has made us look like stalkers of freaks who need urgent dentistry!!!


She could have fucking killed me when the lead singer offered me an autograph and I responded "Do I know you?"

We're not friends anymore, not due to that incident, but she wouldn't shut up about it all the way home and kept smelling her autograph like a pervert!

To this day I cannot think of a band more embarrassing to obsess over.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:36, 9 replies)
A couple of years back....
.....I met Elvis!

He played an absolutely KILLER set, full of all his classics and some that he'd "Written himself (I still don`t understand why he told us this)", On the makeshift stage of a flat back Lorry behind a pub on the outskirts of chesterfield.

After the show, i bought his new Single/E.p 'Just a little bit', featuring his new material all sung lovingly to the backing of a bontempi organ and single finger accompanyment. I plucked up some courage and approached the great man for an autograph, who gave me a very strange look and with a shrug took the Cd and his handy marker pen out. The next thing he said has stuck with me to this day. He asked me who he should sign it from. I was confused!? Perhaps he was trying to keep a low profile...Somehow encourage the rumours of his untimely death. I don`t know.

I DO know however, that i'm probably the only person in the world who has a rare copy of 'Just a little bit' Signed.....

'To Billyfindus,

Lots of love



Ebay anyone?
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:30, Reply)
I was at and all day gig called ear-rational
I was there to watch The Violets and Victorian English Gentlemans Club, but happy to sit through the rest.

The Violets were about to play, so me and my friend Jenny were sat near the stage having a cigarette (inside! Oh how I miss those time) waiting for them to come on.

A blond lady came over and asked if she could nab a fag.
"They're menthol" I said, using the sentence that has saved me tens of pounds over the year.
"That's ok". As my "DAMNIT" wasn't said out loud she continued "so who are you here to see"
"Well...you, and the Victorian English Gentlemans Club" I replied, once more getting bored of saying the band's name about half-way through.

We chatted a little more, then she stubbed out her fag, got on stage and started singing.

Jenny turned to me
"She's in The Violets"
"Yes" pause "I know"
"Did you know that before she started talking to us"
"I thought she was just a random an ou were trying to chat her up"
"Nope. In the band"
"hang on... did you think 'who are you here to see' 'you' was me trying to chat someone up."
"Fuck you. Fuck you with a shovel" I mentioned, over her giggles
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:01, Reply)
When will I be famous...?

This is sort of the 'anti-christ' of this week’s question…

The following harrowing tale tells of the lengths I went to in order to avoid the semi-aryan, blond, leather-jacketed, bell-end-tastic, twins-and-another-one 80’s pop ‘phenomenon’ that was …Bros.

And how I (epic) failed.

I used to work for a newspaper, and regularly rode the roller coaster of bliss and misery that was to meet the supposedly superior race that apparently pass for modern day celebrities.

Every now and again it was a joy to behold, I have many good memories and could drop names until my arse turns inside-out. But sometimes it was a curse – I would have to meet and greet, and in the name of good media relations, fawn, brown nose and butt smooch my way in a vain effort to obtain some vaguely writable content from some seriously smarmy, simpering shitcakes.

But nothing prepared me for the day my editor discovered that none other than Bros, the illustrious insult to music and purveyors of sugar-flavoured-spunkbubbles, were about to hit my godforsaken city with a whimper.

What made it even worse was…this wasn’t in their heyday…oh no, this was when they were ‘past it’…clinging to fame’s last threads…way after they had successfully ejaculated their collective royalties and advances, before deciding they were 'too big for the greedy management and record company’ (that had got them success in the first place), and that they were to blow the remaining wad of their non-existent talent on ‘work to challenge their artistic integrity’. Dear god.

For the love of Jumping Jesus Jizz on a Jaffa cake.

I begged and pleaded with the editor to get someone else to cover the story. I feigned illness, offered bribes and said I had other appointments…but it was to no avail. I was assured that I could ‘fit them in to my schedule’ because as part of their self-promoting pap-a-thon, they were going to visit Mercia Sound, the radio station not 100 yards from the newspaper offices. Doh.

So inevitably, the time arrived, and with a face like a freshly raped arse, I stomped miserably next door and waited for their ‘fashionably late’ arrival. As I stood by the car park I was at least expecting there to be a throng of some sort but it was so sad…there were about 12 people…if that…and no serious commitment made on any particular fan’s part…it was just a mild smattering of folk who had grown up and simply forgotten to ‘let go’ and move on to a similarly mindless worship of somebody like ‘the Backstabberstreet Boys’ or some other crusty plate of wank fluid.

Eventually, they pulled up to the building…and it was a sight to behold.

Gone were the days of Limousines, champagne and wall-to-wall minge-biscuits, they were driven to the Radio station gates in a Ford Granada.

Despite looking old for their years, and wracked with the healthy glow you can only obtain with years of serious drug abuse, they strode out, insisting on making ‘sweeping’ gestures with their arms in order to deflect the ‘waves’ of adoring and gagging-for-it young split-arses…that simply weren’t there. They still insisted on being divas, going out of their way to push past people.

As if I didn’t despise them enough already.

After refusing autographs for the couple of indifferent people and passers-by, they made a bee-line for me, despite the fact I was hiding round the corner of a concrete pillar to avoid them.

What had I done to attract this attention? I was holding a pad, a pen, a camera and my press badge.

One of them tugged on my sleeve and with an arrogant snarl he said “Heeeey, you”, grasping at any opportunity of extending their ‘fame’, even if it meant getting a quote in my meagre rag.

They continued: “What’s your question?”

I tried to think.

“Erm…” I replied despondently. I couldn’t think of anything to ask them.

They simply couldn’t tell that I didn’t want to be there. It became painfully apparent that they, too, were finding it difficult to detach from ‘The Glory Days’…

“Well, what is it?, come on man, we’re busy” They pressed further, yelping impertinently…(possibly thinking that I was to starstruck to speak).

Shocked by the scenario, I thought long and hard…how could I quickly get this over with? Delving deep within my subconscious I stumbled across a question that I was hoping they’d not been asked a million times before. Looking one of them square in the eye I spoke:

“My Question is…….Why?”

“Why…what?” asked the slicked back mongoloid, the veins now visibly bulging in his forehead in frustration at my obvious lack of man-muck spurtage at merely being in their mighty presence.

I then replied stoically…whilst shaking my head:

“Nope…nothing else…just……‘Why?’”

This seemed to somewhat disgruntle the stumpy peroxide covered cuntwits, and they replied with a quote so self-absorbed that it made my ankles swell.

“Oh, fuck off”, he snorted. “We haven’t got time for twats like you, we’ve got music to make!”

I recoiled in faux horror….“I’m sorry?” I said

Instantly, he rolled his eyes, sighed loudly, and began to repeat his insulting sentence, spitting the words back at me : “I SAID……”

And then I cut him off with:

“Oh…I heard what you said……I’m just sorry”

The two brothers then had an almost psychic connection as they performed an earth-trembling collective ‘Harrumph’ then shoulder barged past me and strutted into the building like out-takes from Saturday night fever.

I understand they’ve sorted themselves out now…which is good. I hope that was just a dark patch in their careers. But if it took somebody to sit them the fuck down, give them a firm shake and tell them to stop being such selfish pre-Madonna prima donnas, to pull their shit together and have some respect for ‘normal’ folk, then that person, in my humble opinion...is the hero.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 9:37, 6 replies)
When I met my idol
I use to read a satirical magazine called sounds magazine(not related to the music one), I had a bit of a obsession with collecting a article in it called the voice, written by a "knight" (for that was his last name), This must have been a fair few years ago when I was studying for my masters, I finally got to him the man himself this Easter at a friends shin dig , it turns out he lives in Leeds like me( I literally stared at him all evening after finding out who he was). The conversation goes as follows.

"I use to read your articles in sounds" - me

"I'm glad somebody did, they were my insane rantings at a odd time in my life" - him

"I have all of them in a folder under my bed"- me

"Umm okay, that's a bit odd I think I'm going to go talk to someone else now"- him semi joking I hope

" I heard you live in leeds , maybe we could get together for some writing"- me

"I haven't written in years" - him

"that's a shame , but maybe if i give you my address we could start this week" - me

"sorry mate but you are kinda coming on a bit strong , and plus I'm not gay" - him as he walked away

I had literally been mistake for trying to pick up the most brilliant writer comedian of our generation. He apparently later remarked to a mutual friend that I was creepy. If your out there please call me I think I have a manly platonic crush on you!
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 3:26, Reply)
One glimpse of a high vis jacket with Police on it and I'm mush
How far will i go to follow my hero?
For a long long time ive had the biggest case of unrequited love/lust/hero worship.
And I'm probably not the only one.
Our local plod.
Lovely guy, real community spirited.
( erm not to mention I have a HUGE fetish for a police uniform, damn this new image challenge!)
And he has eyes to fall into, and lovely hands and......er where was I?
Oh yes, I found out today he is being transferred to another area.
Now the thing is I have been idly toying a while with the idea of moving somewhere else.
But not there.

That would be going too far wouldnt it ;)
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 23:08, Reply)
Meeting your heros? Not quite...
But I feel I have to say that HOLY SHIT! I KNOW THIS MAN!

Other picture in replies.
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 19:59, 3 replies)
Aphex Twin
“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.
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 19:28, 4 replies)
I told a colleague who looked amazingly like Simon Pegg that I looked forward to seeing his performance as Scotty.
He laughed. For about half a second.
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 19:24, Reply)
I was once obsessed by the medocre band Ooberman...
Once, in a pub, I placed a bet that I would be able to pull the only female in the group... Sophia her name, I believe.

In this highly complex worded bet, I was had to pull her before the "24 hour" drinking laws came into force... which was several years away at this point and my reward would be an entire 24 hours of drinking at my opponents expense.

I eventually managed found out about a special "end of tour" gig in London, at which we were promised the band would come out and meet the fans... I sensed my opportunity and got myself a ticket and took along camera for proof.

Anyhow, the moment came, I saw Sophia across the room and started walking over, only for my friend to inform me that actually, the lead singer (who was sitting next to her) was her boyfriend and may not be amused at my advances... I was planning on getting him to hold the camera.

Needless to say, despite a second attempt at a second wimp-out at Reading festival, 24 hour drinking came, and I lost... a pint.

My opponent must now pull a weather girl before analog TV is turned off.... He hasn't even met one yet.
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 18:55, 4 replies)
Well as you can tell by my username...
I'm a bit of a fan of Hunter S. Thompson's writings. What you CANNOT tell from my username is that I am also a bit of a fan of an obscure (to you brits at least) American politician named Marion Barry. Mr. Barry was the mayor of Washington DC for many, many years, a real man of the people. He had served multiple terms as mayor, ruling DC with an iron fist from 1979 to 1991, but in 91 his glorious rule was unfortunately cut short, when he was videotaped smoking crack with a prostitute in a hotel room. The prostitute was later revealed to be an undercover police officer, which prompted Mayor Barry's timeless quote: "Bitch set me up!"

Mr. Barry served six months in prison for his transgressions, but all was forgiven when in 1994 he was reelected as mayor, and served in that post until 1999 when he gracefully stepped down, only to return as a city councilman, where he remains to this day.

Now how did I show my devotion to both of these American heroes? this is how:


The head of Marion Barry on the body of the Venerable Dr. Gonzo, caught in the act of smoking crack. While sadly, I'll never be able to show my creation to Hunter, if I ever run into Marion Barry, I'm getting him to autograph it, which will immediately be inked into permanence. On the off chance that he finds it offensive (how could he?) I will immediately get MARION BARRY HATES THIS TATTOO inked in a place of prominence.
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 18:34, 2 replies)
Celebrity devotion tribute act
Where I used to work, we used to get a lot of insane customers. I'm not just talking a bit shouty crazy either, I mean properly, award winning crazy. As an example, one custodian who was illiterate asked me to read his bank statement. He had £90,000 in his account, and he cheerfully told me he was going to have himself cryogenically frozen with it. He also thanked sliding doors when they opened.

But this tale concerns another customer, who we called Mr Hitler. He was quite clearly completely hairless on his head and face, since he came in with a wig that rotated slowly throughout the day, and a moustache that would not be on his face at 9am but miraculously appeared by around 2pm. WIth the 'tache wig combo he looked like a cross between Gomez from the Addams Family and Hitler, thus the name.

He said he was from Dorset, and he always dressed in a very smart suit and spoke in very clipped English. He told me of his fondness for English marching band music, and then told me he'd often "just drive around town with it playing, weeping at its sheer beauty". Every morning at 9.41 his alarm would go off on his phone, which he took as a call. He would then have the same "conversation" with a "bank in Dubai" who were offering him a £150,000 a year job. He always turned it down. After a while, he became in possession of a child's Postman Pat umbrella, which he was furiously possessive of.

I'd seen him out and about, assuming he was another homeless nutcase who fought with the other vagrants in the shelters at night. But something was askew. He had a fancy phone. I saw him driving a really, really fancy car. But we know for a fact he had no home as the back of his car was filled with bedding.

I looked at this man, with his fake wig, suit, fancy car and odd behaviour, and I came to the conclusion that you, avid reader, probably would have too.

This bloke was obviously Gary Glitter.

Thanks to the recession and whatnot, I find myself temporarily out of work. In my spare time, I still see him about and I have been more than a little tempted to follow him, to see if he has a secret stash of platform shoes or children's pants.

It's not devotion to a hero as such, but I have been studying him for two years now. I'm too scared to think of where he got that umbrella...
(, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 18:07, 1 reply)

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