Going to comedy gigs
and festivals as I do, it's inevitable that you bump in to a few people, stammer out your admiration, take a terrible picture and be on your way - Ross Noble, Tim Minchin, Phill Jupitus and Ricky Wilson of Kaiser Chiefs fame to name but a few. This is not a story about one of these times. This is a story about the only time I've been starstruck - not even by a particularly impressive celebrity - and made a massive, massive knob of myself.

It was Christmas 2007, and for my sins I was working in WHSmiths over the university holidays. I'd worked there on and off during college and uni for five years or so, and I could do the job asleep. In fact, I frequently did do the job entirely switched off from the neck up, whilst still retaining more basic functions and manners than most of the frantic sales shoppers.
I think it was one of the days between Christmas and New year that most people have to work, so it was fairly busy but not heaving. I happened to glance up from my stupor and noticed a rather handsome chap in the queue staring at the floor.

'Gosh', thought I. 'He looks really like the one out of British indie band 'The Libertines' that isn't that smackhead Pete Docherty.' The queue shuffles forward slowly, and I stare at him a bit. It really DOES look like him - but it can't be. Why would he be in a shitty wee northern backwater like my town? He's noticed me staring by now, so I time my transaction so that he has to come to my till. He chucks some notepads and pens on the desk and proffers me a weak, slightly nervous, slightly hungover smile. I scan his stuff, and he hands me his switch card face down so I can't see the name. I know it's impolite but I can't help myself - I twiddle it round to look at the little silver embossed letters on the front which do indeed say 'Mr C Barat'. My eyes shoot back to his now rather embarrassed face and I hear myself gasp out 'the Carl Barat? From the Libertines?'. He chuckles wearily - 'yeah'.
Silence. I think to myself - just smile, make a generic compliment and let this poor man go on his way. Keep it simple, calm and suave. Calm and suave. Calmandsuave calmandsua - oh shit he's taking his card back - 'Oh, I just love your work' I gush. 'It's marvellous, really - I do hope Dirty Pretty Things release a new album soon.' I pick up his carrier bag of stuff and offer it to him like I do with every customer, but in my trembling fangirl haste I offer it just a little too hard, and it goes flying out of my fingers and hits him in the chest. He mumbles thanks and shoots out of the shop like his arse is on fire. Poor man.

I spent the rest of the day in a fog of hot, glowing shame and embarrassment.
(berk, Wed 14 Oct 2009, 10:55, 1 reply)

I met him once
I was wankered and told him he was a genius and Pete was a twat

not my finest hour
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 14 Oct 2009, 11:04, closed)