Forays into the world of celebrity: a celebration

Here we go then. A 'blog', as I believe the kids call it. God almighty. I might talk about stuff that's happened to me here. Or I might not. I might just waffle on like some silly old twat.

I love celebrities. Well, not all of them. There are some on life's z-list, such as Goody, Ingram, Hamilton (C and N), André, Edmonds, Best (C), Sleep, Elton, Brandreth, Anderton (Sophie as opposed to Darren), McGrath, et al. that I'd happily scalp with a rusty blade. Having said that, brushes with fame are few and far between for most of us, unless you happen to be a pap or a stalker, or you actually are a celebrity. However, while working in the middle of town, with the misery of the tube, pollution, regular doses of pigeon shit, ceaseless boredom and the regular epiphany of a life more or less wasted to contend with, can occasionally be a little tiresome, it certainly does have its celebrity-related compensations. So I thought that for my first entry I'd regale you, dear reader, with some of my crazy exploits in the wonderful world of the business we call show.

As you may or may not know, central London is a celebrity hotspot. I've bumped into McCartney a couple of times. He was still with that dreadful woman then, poor love. Grant Mitchell has stomped about outside my office waiting for people to recognise him. Stephen Fry has been known to lope past . But its really the minutiae of the minor celeb I enjoy most. For example, I've seen Martin Fowler from Eastenders' stalker (you know, that woman with the buckled face) eating an apple before kissing an associate in luvvie fashion (mwah! mwah!). I've watched a beige-suited Peter Purves - now a genuine silver fox - amble down Dean Street. That really got my star-spotting juices flowing. I've seen Irene Raymond from Eastenders buying perfume in Superdrug. I've seen Hugh Dennis frowning, Tamzin Outhwaite checking her makeup, Bob Mills in elasticated jogging bottoms going into Tescos. I've even seen dear old Michelle McManus stuffing her face with cake in Starbucks. That, as you can imagine, was a particular joy.

Celebrity may, in many cases, be a transient and ephemeral phenomenon - but we should embrace and cherish it. Where would we be if we couldn't look snootily down on the vainglorious vanity of others? Is it right to gawp like a slack-jawed redneck at minor celebrities in the street? Of course it is! These clowns knew what they were getting into when they agreed to appear on The Bill, Big Brother, Driving School/Airport/Vets in Practice or any similar BBC docu-drivel, or whatever. Without these winners-but-still-losers London life would be a lot less fun. So keep 'em peeled ...


Recommendations: This week I am recommending:
West Ham to win the premiership at 500-1 (each way)
Thom Yorke's new album
Cider - the new lager
Sports Shack in Oxford Street - superior leisure gear at competitive prices.