I once saw
that woman who played Cindy Beale in Eastenders dragging a child around Glasgow Airport whilst angrilly shouting into a mobile phone.

I thought about going over and speaking to her, but the only thing that kept springing to mind was a "nip-slip" shot of her I'd seen in some tabloid.

I doubt "I saw your tits in the paper" would have won me an autograph, really.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:48, Reply)

Counting my fingers
Great Scott!

How could I forget to mention in my last answer that I have met AND shook hands with Gordon Brown! Back then he was a mere (new) Chancellor of the Exchequer, dining in style at Colchester's Town Hall.

I was serving at the head table upon which he sat. He didn't tip, but shook my hand and said thank you for an excellent meal and great service.

So I've hated him faaaaaaaar longer than most people have!
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:41, 2 replies)

Spank Monkey reminded me - Belinda Carlisle
So here goes my b3ta virginity.

In 1987, I was 15. I had somehow ignored the last 5 years of great 80s music and New Romantics. I don't know why, but suspect I was rather more involved with problems of my own - being fervently Christian, and secretly as gay as a window.

Suddenly Belinda Carlisle arrived on the scene and I adored her immediately. Every record, every tape, every sniff of a freebie, I'd caught the bug at last. Then in 1988 she announced a tour. Joy was unconfined.

So I got a job, to pay for the coach trip and my ticket, and on payday proudly announced my plans. Absolutely no way was I allowed to go to London on my own. We lived in Darkest Devon. I begged, pleaded, cajoled, but there was no leeway given.

Finally after two weeks, mum gave in to my constant begging and sat me down and told me how I was to get the train and the tube, then 200 miles home again before the trains finished that night. 'twas all agreed and sunshine reigned.

The Good Heavens tour was sold out. Everywhere, sold out. I was laughed at for enquiring. Of course now I know I should have gone and tried the touts, but I didn't know and there was no webmonging in 1987.

So I went surly. Surly as hell. I wouldn't speak to my parents for weeks. I even wonder if that's why I finally came out to them, just to see the look on their faces.

I was allowed to watch the televised performance of said concert, which being as it was recorded in Philadelphia and was therefore on at about 3am, this was a big gesture.

The next tour called in at Cornwall, on the same day I had an exam. There was no question I would be there. I was, and got an A for the exam (GCSE Physics, fact fans).

mum always said I'd grow out of it. Belinda was a phase. Homosexuality was evidence of demonic possession (oh yes!). I still held vigils at every TV appearance I could afford. She happened to perform at GAY on my 25th birthday in 1997, and the club owner introduced me to her backstage, for real. Where she ignored my burbling questions and posed for photos instead. Viz my dodgy highlights:



I still go to concerts of hers now, and still buy everything (said Good Heavens tour is released on CD and DVD on Monday 20th April 2009, and I'll be there). It still makes me go into absolute joy-mode.

In 2006, I was in New York, waiting to watch Belinda take the stage with the Go-Go's, and immediately beforehand, I phoned Mum. She said "I guess she wasn't a phase then. Or you being gay", which was rather sweet of her. Only took her 19 years to figure it out. I got shagged 6 times in 4 days in New York City. Best place in the world. The being a Christian part was the only phase I ever went through. After I found out how homophobic a lot of them are.

And so, a happy ending. I even speak to two of the Go-Go's (Jane Wiedlin and Kathy Valentine) on occasion, and I have more esoteric and worthless memorabilia and autographs than you could throw a striped legging at. And remember - let your children do as they like, or may they end up gay!

Sorry if dull, but it wasn't to me, and it is my first post.

*pop*
(jajwhite, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:41, 5 replies)

Tom Baker
As can probably be told from my username, I have a certain affliction. It's something I managed to supress for a long time, but which has come to become more prolific as the years went on (separating from a long term partner, and suddenly finding you have your own place and own money to spend will do that).

So, in the mid nineties, (about 1996 I think - I can't be arsed to go and check), Tom Baker released his autobiography and did a signing tour of Waterstones branches across the UK. Fucking brilliant! I noted the date, and figured I'd get myself down to the Metrocentre in the evening to have a copy signed. And perhaps even a buttock. I didn't care.

As the weeks ticked by and the great day came ever closer, I got more excited. Tom bloody Baker! The best Doctor ever! And I was going to meet him and shake his hand and ask him all sorts of probing questions that he'd probably never EVER been asked before, like "What was your favourite monster?" and "What was it like shagging Lalla Ward?".

And so the day came; I finished work, drove straight through to the Metrocentre, cursing the slow moving rush hour traffic. I parked up, and maintained as calm a walk as possible as I sauntered through the malls. And then the branch of Waterstones loomed in front of me, tantalising me with its Baker-y goodness. This was gonna be sooooo cool. And I stepped inside the shop...

...Which was virtually empty, save for a few people browsing the shelves. What? Surely I'm not too late; the notice definitely said from 6pm.

I checked my watch. Yep, 6pm on the nose. maybe he's not here yet? But no, surely there would be a queue?

And then my eye was drawn to the date on my watch and realisation sunk in... The fucking signing was the day before.

I really can be a complete spaktard at times.

There were, however, several signed copies on sale in the shop so I still bought a copy. It remains one of the funniest things I have ever read to this day, so if you can track down a copy, then do
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:36, 4 replies)

Last year
on one of our impromptu little visits to town, we came across the unlikeliest of people.

I live in a little rural village about 30 miles south of Glasgow. There's not much to do round here, so my friends and I would often just bugger off to Glasgow when the mood struck, get pie eyed and sleep on my mates' sister's floor.

One sunday, the notion hit us. We went to town, got a taxi to Sauchiehall street and went into Campus. A few drinks later, and I thought I'd been spiked. Who comes walking out on stage and starts singing his own insane songs?

None other than Dr. Karl Kennedy from Neighbours.

He paraded around for a bit, sang a few songs written by his own fair hand, among which was "Susie K", a song about what a twat his character was for cheating on his wife. He also had a bit of banter with crowd, most of which boiled down to "Look! It's me! That guy off the telly!" I think he was pissed.

Afterwards, he went upstairs and signed a few autographs and had a drink with some of his fans. He seemed a bloody nice bloke.

We didn't bother going up, though.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:35, Reply)

When Rick met Muriel Gray
Many moons ago I had a casual aquaintance called Rick. He was a mate of a mate, and usually let me kip on his sofa after Mayfair goth nights in Newcastle. Looked a bit like Andrew Eldritch in the 'Wake' concert video. Haven't seen him for years, but he still holds a special place in my memories for the sole reason that me and my girlfriend of the time popped our respective cherries at one of his parties.

Anyway (and bearing in mind that this was about 20 years ago) Rick had a bit of a thing for Muriel Gray. So, imagine his surprise when he literally bumped into her whilst brousing the racks in Phaze (long defunct goth-wear shop in Newcastle).

Rick: "Good God, Muriel Gray"!

Muriel Gray: "Fuck off".
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:21, 6 replies)

On meeting other peoples Heroes...
I think I've met many other peoples heroes in my time, without really thinking about it or getting the slightest bit of excitement.

The List (per profession):

Bobby Robson
Jack Charlton
Bobby Charlton
Dwight York
Kieron Dyer (cock)
Robbie Fowlers Wife
(I have no interest in football at all!)

Frank Bruno (who I met shortly after he was accused of beating up his Mrs. Although he was having lunch with his Mrs at the time). I did get his autograph though. He carried around a briefcase with A4 size pics of him and signed them.
(I have no interest in boxing either)

Damon Albarn
Graham Coxon
Dave Rowntree

Justin Hayward
Danni Filth and the varying members of Cradle of Filth. He's short and annoying, but his Mrs is quite nice!
Ginger from The Wildhearts (ok, I was damn excited about that one).

Jon Pertwee. Who was great!
'Shifty' from Bread (Gotta get up, gotta get up).
A lady who played a DI in The Bill in the 90's (can't be bothered to Google her).

But can I get to touch my hero, Clint Eastwood, no!
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:18, 7 replies)

She may have only been discovered recently but this women rocks my world.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
( girlinthehole, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 19:20, 8 replies)

Lee Dixon
Reminded of this story by this.

Mate of mine is a huge Arsenal fan and also a GP (that's General Practitioner, not Gavin Peacock, before anyone gets too confused).

Back when Lee Dixon was still a mainstay of The Arsenal Back Four, my friend got invited to dinner by the couple over the road.

The male half of this couple was very good friends with Lee, and mentioned that he'd be there too, with his wife.

My mate's missus said in no uncertain terms that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES was he to talk to Lee about football, because that would be like Lee asking him questions about doctor stuff all night.

Guess what?

As soon as Lee found out my mate was a doctor, he asked him questions about medical matters and this went on all through dinner.

And all evening, as soon as the conversation looked like turning round to football, my mate got a kick on the shins from his missus that any self-respecting defender would have been proud of and a look that said "Just. Don't. Mention, Football".
(Capo, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 18:39, Reply)

I just saw

I just saw Simon Coveny TD getting out of his car and walking into his constituency office here in Cork all the while mumbling something about green energy into his hands free mobile phone device... How I didn't tap him on the shoulder and administer a massive box into his face I'll never know.

Just not the violent type I suppose, or all that politically motivated, for all I know he's a marvellous chap, then again if he chose to work in politics....

I have no heroes cept for bar staff who see, and serve you through the crowds of a busy evening... pure heroes...
(The Cats Twat, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 18:09, 1 reply)

Wolverine
I've always been a big nerdy comic book reading freak. Its spilled over into just about every aspect of my life. Recently I introduced the Mrs to a mate I haven't seen for a while. He pulled me to one side and said:

"Spanky, you do realise who she looks like, don't you?"

"Erm, no..."

"She's the spitting image of Halo Jones!"

And fuck me - she is! Woo!

Anyway, going back a few years. I was seven or eight. Bored stupid. These were my pre-wanking days so I was at my most destructive.

I decided I wanted to be my all time ultimate hero (well, that month, anyway). I wanted to be Wolverine.

I had a plan. It was going to be fucking EXCELLENT!!!

When my mum wasn't looking I raided the cutlery draw and found some knives, big blunt fuckers we used for eating. With these stashed safely away I went to the shed and started my project.

I'd seen my dad use this stuff to sort out the guttering the previous weekend.

And that's where my dad found me about half an hour later, sitting on the floor bawling my eyes out.

"What's happened!?!" Shouts my old man.

And I turn to look at him. My left hand is a gooey, gammy, fucked up mess of household cutlery and industrial strength bonding agent. It burned my hand to fuck. I'd also somehow managed to attach the lid for the glue pot on top of my head.

My dad wasn't very pleased.

My mum wasn't either - we had soup for dinner that night.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:31, 7 replies)

Mark Kermode
Me and my friend used to have a movie podcast. This was back in early 2005. We both listened to Mark Kermode's Film Reviews with Simon Mayo, really into Kermode, before it became a self-referencing whirly-gig of back-slapping Sony Awards.

Kermode did a dissertation at Manchester University so being work shy dick heads we went into town to find it. We found it, and then sort of held it for a bit like a Bible, then took some pictures of us holding it with Dan's Treo.

Feeling like this should be a more hallowed experience, we began photocopying it before massive boredom/penury kicked in.

I now have 35 pages of the introduction on "The radical, ethical and political implications of modern British and American horror fiction". What a stupid thing to have.

It's a loud of i'm brilliant bollocks about how hard it was to write and how he wants to thank his wife. The last person to look at it was four years earlier.
(Paper_clip You are hearing me talk, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:27, Reply)

Can I just namedrop instead?
Back in the early 90's I was working in a big recording studio in London. Pretty much everyone who came to work there was famous due to how bloody expensive the place was.

Not once did I get starry eyed.

One day though, I turned up to work to be told that I had the soul destroying task of a McDonald's radio ad to take care of. Not what I had envisioned when I was a 15yr old dreaming of mixing down dusky beauties wearing nowt but their g strings and kinky boots.

And then Adam West walked in to do the voiceover.

Oh. My. Feckin. God. IT'S BATMAN I cried to myself whilst I suddenly got all nervous and my hands started shaking.

Now you can keep your Christian Bales and George Clooneys, this is the only Batman for me and a nicer fella I have never met. He treated me like I was his Robin and the session flew by.

Before he left he grabbed a piece of paper and signed an autograph without me even asking for one (I wouldn't have dared ask) and I still have it to this very day - In fact it's the only autograph I've ever had.

The only thing that troubled me on that most wonderous of days though was the fact that

Batman is Ginger!
(lurkylurklurk swings more, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:16, 4 replies)

David Boring Anus
For those of you who know him, he was the dude who played Angel in the "Buffy" television series and, um, "Angel". A few years back he did a signing at Forbidden Planet in London which was very heavily attended. By screaming girlies. And myself.

The only reason I went was because my sister is a big fan of his (lord knows why) and she had some Angel memorabilia she wanted signed. As she was doing a Saturday job at the time, she couldn't go but guess who didn't work Saturdays?!

So there I am, standing in line like a 6 foot plus lamp post, sporting more hair on my entire body than the entire conga line of pre-pubescent screaming girlies would have on their collective snatch. Thankfully, instead of looking like some weirdo paedo, I seemed to share an unspoken kinship with the parents of these screeching harridans, no doubt dragged against their will to stand for hours outside a geek's paradise (I used to love going down Forbidden Planet back then).

After what seemed like hours (which actually turned out to be 3 hours) I was let into the shop and up to the counter where the charisma donor was seated. Admittedly, despite not being an avid follower of his, I still felt quite nervous and excited. After all, this was a guy I'd seen on my telly and there he was, large as life. Awesome! So it finally gets to my turn, I'm all smiles and say "Hello!" to him whilst placing the merch in front of him to get it signed. He looks up, grumps a very curt "Hi", scribbles and...that's it. Around 3 hours waiting just to get a mono-syllabic response, a glazed expression and off on my merry way?! I felt cheated.

Then again, I did get the damn thing signed for my sister, who loved it. Standing over 3 hours in line for a bloke whose pockets I wouldn't piss in if his bollocks were on fire just to get something signed for someone else?? Guess that makes me my sister's biggest fan.
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:13, 4 replies)

There was a boy
A ten year old boy.

We’ll call him…well…we’ll call him Scarpe, as he is the valiant yet tragic hero of this sorry tale

It’s Friday night, he’s flicking through the Radio Times. And then he see’s it…on ‘Saturday Superstore’ the next morning….someone he adores, someone he just knows he must meet.

But how? He knows he is supposed to be visiting his Nan & Granddad the next day. His parents wouldn’t understand, they wouldn’t take him all the way to that there London on the off chance he could make his dream come true.

So he starts to plan. He goes to bed at 9 without even being asked. He even brushes his teeth without argument.

The lights go out and he starts to fiddle with his new digital watch. He sets the alarm for 5am and tries to sleep.

But he can’t. It feels like Christmas Eve. His stomach is full of butterflies.

5am comes around and he gets up, gets dressed in the dark and sneaks out the back door. He edges his way round the garden, avoiding the automatic lights.

But a light snaps on.

He freezes, he’s about to get caught.

But no…no one wakes up, and soon he’s out on the street and free, free, free…

An hour later he has made his way to the train station, he’s queuing to get a ticket to London, he is so close to meeting his hero he can almost hear their voice saying hello to him.

And then a hand clasps his shoulder.

He turns and comes face to face with his Dad.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve just followed you all the way here’

And our hero is marched all the way back home in silence, tears streaming down his face.

Hours later he is sat, sulking, at his Nan and Granddads house, watching forlornly as the lucky bastards on the telly who are asking questions and getting answers from the object of his affection.

The jealousy is overwhelming. He starts to sob again, he can’t control his tears.

And who, you may ask, is the focus of this love…nay…adoration…nay…worship?

Nik Fucking Kershaw.

(I swear, I am straight, I really am)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:03, 4 replies)

Hero worship in reverse
That spotty oik Matt Willis from Busted is courting a TV presenter called Emma something or other. Anyway, she's local and every Xmas Eve she and he can be found in The Station pub in Sutton Coldfield, er as can I. I've never spoken to them and I've certainly not indulged in hero worship with the boy from the Year 3000 about What He Went To School For but he worshipped at my feet.... sort of.

Two Xmas's ago I'd seen the pair of them getting a lash on with their the sycophantic slag mates and generally acting aloof and trying to be cool. Later on in the evening whilst utilising the urinals, I heard a sort of wet thud. I turned to see Mr Jarvis flat on the floor of the skanky gents, very very drunk with his face in a puddle of piss. His lackey chums quickly picked him up with soothing and reassuring platitudes along the lines of, "Are you ok Matt?" and "No-one saw it's ok". Well yes I did and no it's not Mr Willis, you've been Busted!

The pissy faced little boy was cleaned up and sent on his way trying to be cool. I wonder how that compared to his Get Me Out The Celebrity Jungle challenges?
( abefroman skating on the thin life of modern life on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:48, 1 reply)

i've met Jamie Hewlett twice
and twice i haven't been able to think of anything to say to him and come across as a personality free zone.

the first time i was a runner i a tv company when the gorillaz team came to use the green screen. i got him to sign some thing and he wrote 'thanks for a the tea and stuff' which makes me look like a servile twat. one of the other runners was a bit smarter and got him to draw a quick sketch of them. damn, should have though of that.

The second time was a book signing for the gorillaz art book. He was actually quite chipper and keen to talk to me. except i went blank again. damn again.
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:46, Reply)

Accidental devotion
I don't dislike Clive Anderson. I liked him when he did Whose Line, and he's usually pretty ok when he crops up on Mock the Week. But I don't like him enough to...y'know, devote any time or anything to him really.

I say this because I don't think it's normal to bump into him twice, in around 4 weeks, in two different airports, overhearing him having the same angry conversation with someone on the phone both times. Unless he's stalking me, in which case I look forward to reading his post on here.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:32, 1 reply)

My then boyf, the current Mr Quar, kept in touch with his ex
and one day she gave him some Robbie Williams tickets, having chucked out her cheating husband shortly before they were due to see him.

This was back when Robbie was at his peak and my youngest daughter was 15.

So Boyf and I told her she could take whoever she wanted and we'd drive them up there and back, all for free.

Amazingly, Daughter didn't choose her bezzy mate to take. She picked a nice quiet girl she knew, Kim, who was obsessed with Robbie - did her GCSE art project on him, no less.

Although they weren't close she chose her because she knew Kim's ambition was to see Robbie sing live.

I arranged it with Kim's mum and then let Daughter give Kim the news, and all squealing hell broke loose!

So that's how Kim came to see Robbie at two days' notice, at no cost, with someone whom until then she hardly knew.

I felt proud of Daughter. Yes, you, little b3tan!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:31, 9 replies)

‘Outed’ by the power of bass.…

As part of my havoc strewn and misspent youth in the late 80’s, I spent way too much of my time hurling myself chin first into an unswervable admiration for the crap Scottish rockers ‘Simple Minds’

A couple of my mates felt the same unashamed blind love for every lump-of-shite twanging anthem they produced.

We were smitten. Simple as that.

As soon as we were old enough to go to one of their gigs (mid teens), we signed ourselves up (at great expense) to cover half of their British tour with them.

We would hang around after gigs and we met them a few times. They signed every record we owned, whether it was one of theirs or not.

The singer and guitarist were actually pretty nice guys. You’d imagine that they would be the ones with the biggest egos but no, they were ok and had time for everyone. Patsy Kensit was nice, too. The drummer, on the other hand, was a cast iron cunt-brick who barely said a word to anyone post-gig, he would just leap straight into the back of his chauffer driven Range Rover and fuck off past us all.

My favourite band member however, was the bass player of the time. A guy called Malcolm Foster. A brilliant musician, he would wander out post gig, and once he recognised us, would escort us to the hospitality beer and hand out souvenirs. Top bloke. On one occasion I asked my accompanying mate to take a picture of Malcolm and I together. We tried to do the ‘Rock’ manly handshake thing but I messed it up a bit so it didn’t look quite right.

In fact…to the untrained eye, it seemed to resemble a lover’s photo of an awkward looking man and a teenage boy holding hands as they gazed adoringly at each other.

I was blind to this. Malcolm & me = mates. That was it. My joy was unconfined.

With a song in my heart and a spring in my step, I lovingly carried this photo around in the heart-shaped ‘special memories’ photo section of my wallet.

For about a year.

I displayed it with utmost pride to everyone I saw…and never once spared a thought to the mutterings around me whenever the picture was on display.

It was only in a busy queue at ‘Greggs the Bakers’ one fateful afternoon...when it was time to for me to pay, I opened my wallet and someone glanced over my shoulder, spotting the 'snap-de-lurve' and ‘tutted’ disapprovingly…

This caused me to look again at the photo…and then slowly experiencing the painful, crushing epiphany...the realisation that for literally months I had been carrying around a pic that was the supreme epitome of uber-gayness.

It suddenly became so blatant to me. So obvious. For all intents and purposes, he may as well have been pushing his bass slapping thumb so far up my marmite motorway that he could tickle my colon.

My face almost caught fire with crimson shame. I’m not homophobic, people…just very.easily.embarrassed

And my whimpers of: “It’s not what it looks like…he’s a bass player” only served to compound their scornful glances further.

I then did the only thing I thought I could…I angrily ripped the picture out of my wallet, scrunched it up and threw it in the nearby bin…merely making everybody suspect that I had just been dumped by Malcolm, and their subsequent looks of pity only served to make the situation worse still.

I cringe even now thinking about it.

The thing is though …I really wish I’d kept that photo.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:28, 5 replies)

Michael Douglas
Okay, so I am not a 'fan' but one night, when I worked on Wall Street (the career path, not the movie) I was sat in a bar called The Jet Lounge on the lower east side.

Frankly, I was drunk. But I am one of those likable drunks. I tend to be a quiet, amiable guy when in my cups (as opposed to when sober).

So I am sat there at the bar, sipping my Macallans and conversing with my buddy when the jackass next to me nailed me in the back with his elbow. I mean, it was damn near painful!

So I tapped him on the shoulder and waited for him to turn around: he turned around and it was Michael Douglas. Star of the CLASSIC film Wall Street. Gordon Gecko was his character and just about every broker I knew could recite that film word for word.

He looked at me as if I had Alaskan King Crabs crawling out of my ears. I said "Seriously. You JUST elbowed me. I'd appreciate it if you'd be more considerate of others around You."

My buddy spit out a portion of his mouthful of liquor. Had I REALLY just admonished Gordon Gecko?! Had I really just requested he be more considerate of others around him?! Cripes!

So, we return to our conversation and continue to enjoy our adult beverages. To be interrupted mere moments later by the very same elbow, into the very same back and this time, it had what we on this side of the pond term "English' on it. It was twice as painful.

A rapid tap on the shoulder later and I tell him this: "Seriously. That's twice. Let there be a third and I will be sweeping the floor with that head of yours. Don't let it happen again!"

He apologized this time and shortly after had a drink sent over. Again I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Thanks but not thanks. I am NOT your biggest fan."
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:02, Reply)

And then theres my local boozer...
...Fagans (in Sheffield), where live acoustic music sessions happen most nights. Regulars in Fagans include Jarvis Cocker (though he doesn't play) and Richard Hawley (he's been known to pick up a bat now and then) and Joolz Holland when he's in town.

Don't know if I'd class Richard as a hero...more of a drinking buddy, really.

Anyhoo...I'm doing the session this Saturday. Can't promise any superstars showing up, but if you pop in, be sure to come and say hi!
(TC, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:58, Reply)

My friend is gay
Lots gay. Although you wouldn't say unless you came close enough to smell the cock on his breath. Anyway he was lucky enough to spend the evening with Mr Gay UK while he sat through his first viewing of 2 girls 1 cup. How many people can say they sat with Mr Gay UK when he watched that video for the 1st time. How cool is that.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:48, 2 replies)

Gavin Peacock
When I was young (about 12-ish) and holidaying in the the Marbella/ Puerto Banus area with my family, we had occasion due to some strange connection to be sat down at a lovely spanish restaurant in the mountains behind the coast with Gavin Peacock, who at the time I think played for Chelsea. Anyways, before leaving he went to the toilet and upon his return it was quite obvious to everyone that he had managed to dribble/spray the front of his beige chino shorts with peepee. so there you go - shit footballer, useless at peeing.

i really dont know why i bothered with that.

sorry
(little lord muthafuckin fauntleroy, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:34, 5 replies)

The Queen Pot
The story below reminds me of The Queen Pot, let me explain...

My whole family were obsessed with Queen, we watched their 1985 live video (kind of magic? I forget) so many times that we had all memorised the minute/second count of all our favourite parts. We desperately wanted to see Queen but as the children of unemployed hippies in the 80's, there was not a lot of money around. That's when my dad hit on the idea of The Queen Pot. Whenever anyone found any money in the street, even a penny, we had to deposit it in The Queen Pot. That The Queen Pot was actually a Militant party fund raising jar only added to the excitement- stickers of Lenin! Bright red!

So five of us scroungey chavscum types would scour the streets looking for pennies to one day realise our dreams. My dad even did a couple of minor insrance scams to get some extra money for it, and after over 5 years of collecting other people's money scraps like crazed metallophillic vultures we finally had the ~£200 needed to get 5 tickets to see Queen next time they played and get the train up to London.

Then he died.

My parents probably knew he was ill and thought it was a good discipline to instill in us, saving (and scrabbling amongst overflowing bins looking for a tuppence) rather than buying on credit.

I finally got to see 'Queen' at Hyde Park a couple of years ago and found myself making up an excuse to have 5 minutes on my own, away from the policeman who gave me one of his complimentary tickets for the London bombings etc, so I could have a private little cry for a) dead Freddie and b) a mini rememberence of how poor we were and how my lovely parents taught me that whilst you might go without for years to try and have your dream, it still might get snatched away from you.
(octopuspie, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:33, 1 reply)

missed it by that much
i've been a huge fan of queen ever since, at the age of three, i first heard bohemian rhapsody. i was utterly hooked from that moment on. i'd beg for the records and cassettes(yes, it really was that long ago) for birthday and christmas presents, i'd play my little stereo till its speakers bled. no other band got so much as a look-in.

then, one glorious day, my friend told me she had tickets to see queen in concert, would i like to come?
does a bear defecate amongst the foliage? of course i'd like to come!
with assurances from her father that we would be properly escorted and watched over by him, i raced home to give my parents the good news.



they said no.
just no.


despite the fact we had a responsible adult with us, despite the fact that i wouldn't have to pay a penny, despite the fact that it wasn't on a school night, they decided that i was too young to go and effectively dropped a portcullis across the drawbridge of well-thought-out arguments.

not only were my dreams thwarted, but the concert i was stopped from attending was the knebworth concert, their last before freddie mercury died.
i will never forgive them for this.


my greatest hero at the moment is terry pratchett, an absolute literary god. i queued outside forbidden planet for 4 hours to meet him and have him sign my books. despite the massive number of fans he'd already had to deal with, he was polite, courteous and an utter joy to speak to.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:17, 8 replies)

Not a fan as such
But I once spent an entire drunken weekend in Puerto Banus being stalked by Nicky Butt. No, really. Every bar I went in, he'd come in after me. Every cheesy Euro-club (and they really are shit in Puerto Banus), he'd be there.
He even turned up in the same queue at the airport when it was time to go home. He's a bit of a ratty little fucker.

I also stood right next to Sol Campbell in a club in Dubai, and was going to engage him in a learned debate about how he was a cunt for leaving Spurs for Arsenal.

But then I remembered that a) he's bigger and harder than me, and b) I'm a coward. So I pretended to be cool and ignore him.

I think I should stop going to footballers' hangouts. I don't even _like_ those places; Dubai is a fucking awful place. Another story there, maybe.
(rockdoctor, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:12, 1 reply)

Clement Freud - proper legend
I'll be honest, I hadn't even heard of Clement Freud until 2002 when he decided to run for the post of Rector at the University of St Andrews against Germaine Greer.

I first saw this stout, slow moving man at the hecklings where each candidate delivered a speech prior to answering questions from the audience. Though his body may have been frail, his diction and wit were second to none and he won me over instantly.

"During the campaigning for this election a great deal has been made of the fact that I'm 78. Don't worry as this is an entirely temporary situation. Next year I fully intend to be 79."

In closing he finished with, "I see by looking at my watch that I'm running out of time. I must say this timepiece is very dear to me as it was my grandfather's. He sold it to me on his deathbed."

Later during the heckling part someone posed the following to him...

"Sir Freud, I've seen you speak before at [some event] and you told the exact same joke about Sigmund Freud's watch then."

And without missing a beat.

"Well consider how lucky you are to have only heard it twice. Some of my dear friends who've seen me speak more frequently have endured hearing that joke dozens of times."

He duly won the election to become our Rector for 3 years and my girlfriend and I made sure we attended his inauguration. In the old and majestic surroundings of Younger Hall it was a bizarre occasion: on the surface a very formal event with the ceremonial maces, properly attired officers of the university and a few verses of our latin anthem The Gaudeamus. But it was also half an hour of, what was essentially, some of the best standup I've ever heard.

I was rushing to an appointment in Paris and was driving there excitedly about to use the EuroStar for the first time. On the way I was listening to a local radio station and there was a request for a song to be played from one friend for another.

"Could you play 'Walking on Sunshine' please for my friend Janet as today she is 111."

...

"Oh sorry, I misread that, she's ill!"

I later recounted the story of this amusing slip up to my French hosts over drinks.

"Et alors il dit, '...qui est aujourd'hui 111. Aucun désolé, elle est malade.'"*


[dramatic pause while we all laugh]


"The French have no sense of humour."


I didn't ever meet him properly but when I graduated he was there on the front of the stage, applauding each and every student with the gusto that belied his then 80 year old body. I gave him a little bow before heading over to the podium pleased to receive such a small compliment from such a great man.

RIP Clement Freud.

*apologies for my rusty translation
( djtrialprice, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:06, 4 replies)

I also have fans of my own
I once had lunch in a restaurant in London where all the tables were close together.

When I sat down the woman next to me, a stranger said "Oh my God!" and she popped a bit of her pudding into my mouth.

She suddenly loked crestfallen and said "oh sorry love, I thought you was Elton John".

I wouldn't have minded so much, only a week before in Manchester someone said "look, its fookin Elton fookin John. Fook off Elton!".

And the month before someone said "Excuse me - you look like Elton John".

Stupid blind morons.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:03, 6 replies)