Pam Anderson
Not many people know this, but I was seeing Pam for a while. She'd often pop over in the evening for late night trysts. She was a caring and attentive lover and nothing like the media portray her.

One night I gave her a booty call and she dutifully appeared. Only this time there seemed to be something wrong. Cunt, the pages were stuck together. Pam? Pam! PAAAAMMMMM!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

I was her number one fan for a while, but this was too much. I couldn't deal with having to look at Pam when half her boob was stuck to the previous page with semen. I gave her fanny a quick rub with my finger and let out an audible whimper as I scrunched Pam up and threw her into the bin. It had been an emotional few weeks, but it was time to move on.

I sat there for a further 5 minutes musing over my loss. Then I took her out the bin and flattened the bit of paper. I thought to myself, well I've ruined her boob. I may as well pay her ultimate tribute and ruin the rest of her. Pam you filthy bitch! Have that and that and that....!!

I looked after Pam until she looked like she'd spent her life trying to break the world bukakke record. Lesser fans would have got rid of her much earlier, but not not me. I was a true fan.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:28, Reply)

OneSelf and DJ Vadim....
I had the pleasure of meeting OneSelf a couple of years ago (OneSelf are an excellent Hip-Hop crew featuring DJ Vadim and Yarah Bravo for the uninitiated).

I had sent the female vocalist a drunken myspack message a few nights previous which went something along the lines of: "You're so great, you're so great, I love your music and would cream my pants for the chance to remix one of your tracks, will you send me some accapelas?".

To my surprise she added me to her MSN and we had a few chats online about music and stuff and we then arranged to meet after one of their out door gigs they were doing in Camden to promote their new album.

So I grab a big fat marker pen and a copy of their album (for autographs) and off I trot to hangout at the designated meeting place and wait for the band (WOOOFUCKINYEAHHHH!!!).

So they arrive, they are cool as fuck and I'm a little star struck to be honest. Whilst they are setting up their kit I stroll over to DJ Vadim and ask him to sign my copy of his OneSelf album.

Now, I should point out at this stage that DJ Vadim's music has had a massive influence on me over the years - I started producing music after hearing his early instrumental albums, got in to DJing/mixing after having a quick muck around with his records and some turntables and generally speaking I idolised the fucker to the point of being a pathetic fanboy.

So it is with great sadness that I recollect strolling up to possibly one of the greatest hip hop producers of all time and asking for an autograph in the following exchange:

Me: Hey man, nice to meet you, I got your new album here, it's quality - I have been listening to it solidly since is came out.... Would you mind signing it for me?

Vadim: Yeah, no problem, you got a pen?

Me: *Hands Vadim my insulin injection pen*

So Vadim goes to remove the lid from my insulin pen as I realise my mistake and attempt to man-handle it out of his mits again before he comes face to face with a dirty great stabby-stabby-injection-needle. We struggle a little, I snatch the insulin back and Vadim is left holding my album, penless and wearing a confused look on his face.

Now he's looking at me like I'm some sort of freaking fuck-tard while I'm rummaging around in my coat pockets for the real marker pen, nodding sagely and smiling my best "care in the community" smile at my hero.

Me: Er, sorry, um I don't have a pen.

Vadim: OK. *Gives album back*.

Me: Walks away.

The End


(As a charming little apendix to this story, I did on this same day meet the lead vocalist of OneSelf and we had a lovely time... Ms. B kindly gave me a CD of her accapellas (and a few instrumentals!) with which I made a remix which I posted on b3ta.com/links and from memeory I was duly flamed for lying about meeting celebrities!)
(aroe_m0rre, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:21, 7 replies)

Driving detour.
I was working the night shift again and the clock had finally ticked over to 6am - home time at last. I jumped in my car and sped off down the deserted streets of Cape Town, South Africa. One of the few pleasures of finishing at this ungodly hour was having the privilege of using all 3 lanes of the motorway in any way I saw fit. Zig zagging across lanes, zipping round corners and screeching tyres were the order the day as I tried to beat my personal best time on the trip home.

I was into the home straight now with only a few corners left. I was off the motorway so I needed to be a bit more attentive as I was now down to a single lane. With trees and shrubbery fast approaching ahead I sized up the road, touched the breaks and spun the wheel to get the perfect line round the corner. It was a smooth and silky exit, but wait...what's this? A road full of people - on my side of the road!! Evasive action needed to be taken, and fast. I dropped a gear and steered my chariot away from danger. It wasn't pretty, but avoiding a group of idiots walking in the middle of the road never is.

There was little time to utilise my death stare on these daredevil dawn walkers. I sped past and tried to impart some of my latent rage by revving my engine. No sooner had this large group started to diminish in size in my rear view mirror than some animated individual appeared from the bushes and waved me to the side of the road. First a group of suicide walkers and now this! Shit, that was my personal best time shot down in flames.

He had a uniform and looked official so I dutifully pulled over. He explained he was a member of the secret service and then started to berate me for my frankly reckless driving. I thought better of attempting to explain that I was on target to smash my record so I was in fact driving very well. Anyway, secret service?Secret service! Who was he fucking kidding!

His demeanour indicated he was rather pissed off. I think livid would be a more accurate description. I wasn't exactly feeling like Jesus at the last supper at this stage myself so it didn't quite sink in when he asked me, 'Do you know who you almost ran over?'
'A bunch of idiots?' I replied sarcastically.
This answer seemed irk him exponentially.

'No. Nelson Mandela!'.

I went a bit quiet as I leaned over to check my rear view mirror. There was indeed a tall black man walking amongst a group of people. My brain ticked over as I contemplated this for a second. The full reality of the situation sunk in and I realised the gravity of what I had almost done. The man seemed marginally more pleased as he watched the the colour drain from my face.

We sat there for a few moments as the large entourage approached and I was lectured on dangerous driving. I can't quite remember what was being discussed at the exact moment the worlds greatest living statesman walked past my car and gave a knowing smile. He wasn't smiling at me, but I'm sure he was having a little chuckle to himself at the young kid being berated by the cops. Well that's what I told myself anyway.

They all passed by and I sheepishly drove past him making sure that I changed gears as quietly as I could. I kept checking my rear view mirror as the sight of the Nelson Mandela walking down the road is quite something. Well it was for me at that point because all I was thinking was, shit, I almost ran over Nelson Mandela. 30 Yrs in jail and he could have ended up dead in a fireball after he's hit by a rusty toyota.

After I moved I still took a massive detour each day in the hope I'd see him going on his early morning walks near his house. I saw him once more and it made the extra 15 minutes of driving after every night shift for 6 months worth it. Say what you will, but seeing that man in the flesh gave me goosebumps.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:03, 3 replies)

Most Wanted Musician


There I was, off to Edinburgh for a couple of days. It was nothing particularly glamorous, a bog standard trip which thanks to the peculiarities of my job meant that I would be spending it in various art galleries, museums and at least one trip to the Whiskey Museum. Now my golden rule with any type of travel is this: Remember what it was like being a kid. Remember the excitement of just being in an airport, of getting on a plane and remember the rush of take off. Hold on to that childlike wonder and try to remember what it was like the first time your company actually paid for you to visit somewhere, where they paid for a hotel and dinner and drinks. Man, this is all awesome stuff! Never let familiarity take the shine out of amazing things. It’s like flying, people sit there and read, or watch movies or sleep. Dude, look out of the window, we’re flying! Flying FFS, our ancestors dreamed of this for millennia!

Now I know this is a digression, but bear with me it helps to picture the kind of mood I was in. I’d landed in Edinburgh, had a successful first meeting and had decided to walk back into the centre of town. My phone rang, it was my partner in my *other* ventures, the art and creative stuff that lets me cling on to the last vestiges of impetuous youth and separate me in my mind from the salaryman I need to be for my family.

“Voodoo, good news, Mark Millar just called. He finally got your message about being in Scotland, said he had a great time at our last meeting and has invited out for drinks. I’m getting on a plane and I’ll meet you in Glasgow.”

This was PERFECT. On the off chance this would work out I had arranged a meeting the next day in Glasgow and so the company were footing the bill for a hotel, and naturally I had ‘accidentally’ booked a twin. The meeting he was referring to was when we interviewed him for a show we were putting on about British comic art, and when Mark had agreed to be the patron of our art programme. Now one of my comics heroes doing that was pretty much incredible, but being invited out drinking was just possibly the greatest thing to ever happen.

Walking back into town I had my strut on, a sense of childlike excitement, the sun was out and what was this? My Scottish Trip Garbage playlist had just come on. Life was indeed good and I could already taste my celebratory pint. As I strode down the street I began to pay attention to my whereabouts. I was coming up away from Leith and remembered that I had heard Shirley Manson was from that part of town.

“And talking of Shirley Manson, wow, look at her”

Walking toward me was my perfect kind of indie girl.

“Look at her! All knee high boots, shirt skirt, slim perky body and working my way up is that red hair I spy and wow she’s stunning she looks like……Bugger me! It’s only bloody Shirley Manson!”

It was indeed the prefect day. And dammit if I wasn’t going to say hello, I was fizzing with confidence and I’m a nice polite well dressed (today) chap, hopefully she’ll take it the right way. And as I changed my step to walk toward her she caught my eye, I began to pull out my headphone and try to relate in a few simple expressions and movements that “hey, I was just listening to a track of your criminally underrated album, Beautiful Garbage and what a surprise..”, and as I began to smile I noticed the old lady beside her. They were both carrying shopping bags, and if you took away Shirley’s heels they were of the same height.

“Shit! She’s out with her mum. It doesn’t matter how polite I am, that would just be rude”

As the mental gears turned (and it’s amazing, these paragraphs took place in a matter of seconds) I properly took in the scene. Behind her, following at a respectful/optimum stalking distance was a motley collection of fan boys/girls, freaks and the strange. (You know, Garbage fans). In an instant I understood. She had been out shopping with her mum, one or two had probably spotted her and called their mates, and bit by bit she had accumulated an entourage of the peculiar. All of them too scared to actually come up to her. But if I stopped her, broke through that barrier the poor woman would be mobbed.

I glanced up at them, I looked at her mother and this time tried to convey “Oh bugger I’m sorry I didn’t realise you’re with your mum, I don’t want to interrupt you have a lovely day”

I was rewarded with the biggest, warmest most genuine smile topped off with a little wink. And then in my book was worth a million oddly stilted fan boy street stops. I was elated, I had done a good thing for one of my all time crushes, been smiled at and swept through the following nut nuts like the king of all geeks.

My day just couldn’t get better. Until that was I made it to Glasgow met up with Millar and at 2am drinking scotch in some backstreet bar he told me his mate had shagged her, that she was filth and indeed did take it up the wrong ‘un.
(voodo_kinky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:30, 5 replies)

Tell me Ma, me Ma, To Put the Champagne on Ice....
we're going to Wembley twice.

:)

What lengths do I go to?

I did a conga with my 12 year old son all the way from Block 501 to Block 508 right through the United fans, when we beat them at Wembley Yesterday.

Have It!!

Thank teh lord for Corporate tickets ;)
(hoogie Original Cunt Horse Author, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:18, 2 replies)

It was during the heatwave of '41.
It was 18 inches in diameter and kept the whole family cool.
That was my biggest fan.



Hur hur hur.
(TheColonel, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:10, Reply)

Beware of geeks
Back in the misty days of yore when I was a PhD student I went to the annual SIGGRAPH conference in the US of A. SIGGRAPH is the biggest (and most academically prestigious) conference in the computer graphics world - think 45,000 geeks in attendance, a full research conference agenda, a trade show, evening events, cinema screenings, Holywood effects houses, and... free bars.

It's easy to get invites to the best parties if you're a girl and have the right contacts. Tick! And Tick! And so I found myself at many of these swish booze-ups over the week: publishing houses, alumni groups, SFX studios - you name it, they had a party for it, and usually a matching (XXL) t-shirt too.

I discovered frozen daiquiris. I found they went well with margaritas. I forgot to eat. Who needs actual food when you can have icy strawberry-flavoured sustenance? I did what I do best - I got well and truly langered.

Thing is, it being such a prestigious conference, the gods of the graphics world are there in force. I spied mine: a man whose work I had been studying in depth for the past 2.5 years, a man who knew more about displays that anyone else, a man whose brain I needed if I was to finish my cutting-edge research, a man who reduced me to awe-stricken wonder. I had a mission! I had a target!

And so I approached him, veering drunkenly across the room under cocktail-influenced navigation in exactly the way that an F-14 Tomcat wouldn't. I may have gabbled something like "your work is amazing and I am trying my very best to emulate and continue it" but what actually came out, drunken and slurred, was "I thought you'd be older. With a beard."

His wife laughed. He smiled benignly. I left to be violently ill and lost my nose stud while vomiting down the toilet several hours later.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:06, 8 replies)

History Lesson
*Ahem* Apologies in advance for lack of funnies.

Serious as cancer, this one.

There was one person I came to see as worthy of adulation, and quite possibly a national holiday in his honour.

My dear old grandad on my mum's side - a mentalist Geordie who I remember used to sit in a chair and swear like a fucking trooper when we went round. My mum would ask him politely to stop and he'd say:

"What the fuck did you say, ehh???" He was pretty deaf. Though he wasn't very pretty. He was, to put it technically, physically fucked. For a start he was missing the thumb on his left hand. He also walked with a stick on account of his leg being shattered in an accident when he was younger.

He had to use a catheter to piss - apparently that part of his body had been on full malfunction alert since he was in his early twenties. Its amazing he ever had kids at all.

As a youngun I'd leg it round his house pretending to be a Spitfire, as you do - and one day I felt this arm grab hold of me. It was my dear old grandad, Alan.

"Stoppit, son," he said. "Won't have any of that nonsense in this house."

And I did stop it. Why? Because my old grandad scared the living crap out of me.

Then, when I was about thirteen or fourteen, he died. And I recall at the funeral wondering why the hell everyone was so unhappy; I mean, he was fucking OLD. And he was also physically FUCKED.

Then my uncle Matteo took me to one side when I started pissing about at the after-putting-the-body-in-the-ground do.

"You need to grow up, you little shit," whispered my uncle Matteo. He could see this wasn't really having the desired effect. "Have some respect for that man!"

And, being a shit of a teenager I shot back: "Why? - What's he ever done for me?"

Matteo sat me down and explained: "Do you know how your Grandad lost his thumb? Well, he was paracuted into Normandy in the war. His paracute got caught up in some branches in a tree and he was dangling helplessly twenty feet above the ground. The only way he could get free before someone killed him was if he cut himself free. So, your Grandad took his knife and slit himself out of the harness." Matteo stopped for effect, seeing he had my attention. He had. Completely. He continued: "It wasn't until later that evening after lots of fighting that your Grandad looked down at his hand and noticed he'd actually cut his own thumb off in his hurry to get free of the parachute. He was on so much adrenalin he just didn't feel the pain."

"I didn't know any of this..."

"Well, he didn't like to talk about it. And a few days later he was shot in the leg, shattered all his bones. That's why he spent most of his time in a chair. And he did all that so little shits like you can do what you want to do in life."

And with that my uncle Matteo stalked off.

And I was incredibly well behaved for the rest of the evening.

Fuck your musicians and actors and all that bollocks - people like my Grandad and others like him deserve our devotion and hero-worship.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 14:51, 19 replies)

Big Brother's Little Patience
'Oi, don't you know who I am?', her shrill voice screeching over the inane ramblings of other patrons. 'I was on Big Brother. I'm a fuckin' star and you're gonna treat me like one by serving me next!'

Adele had never watched Big Brother. It would have made no difference if she had. With 3 people on the bar in a student guild holding 700 thirsty individuals, there were no shortcuts and intimidations going on. Reality tv fame or not, the lass was going to wait.

And wait the lass would not.

As the queues began to wind down, a vein of aggitation became more strikingly apparent in this customer's face as her fake nails rummaged in the tiny bag on a string to pull out the undeniable conversation-stopper of any student establishment: the credit card. A shining black rectangle of diminished responsibility and financial overindulgance. A tiny gateway into a much larger world of adult alcoholism. It's beauty was only outdone by its limit.

'Listen, I'm gonna get served now, gottit? Get yourselves some drinks and a few other people and let me go back to the dancefloor. The pin is XXXX.' With no hesitation, a complete stranger had now been given the details necessary for a finacial joyride. Clearly these shows don't attract Darwin's elite.

Calculating the possibilities for a swift and painful retribution out of the eyeshot of our cretinious subject, Adele signals the international sign for a drink on the house to me. God bless that project management course I went on with her. Very nice lady - not physically - but definately game for a laugh. A few seconds later, and I've ordered myself 3 pints.

Adele's industrial sign isn't as good as mine (I, unlike some, was taught in the subject). The 3 glasses asexually bred at an exponential rate. Signalling to come over to the staff entry section of the bar, 30 servings of liquid gold arrived in front of me over time after returning the gatekeeper of credit to its rightful owner, receipt-free.

I nearly pissed myself with anticipation. All these, for me? Even a bloke of my size could only take 10 or so without requiring a paramedic. The spirit of generosity had arrived early as I shuffled between the punters, handing out drinks with gless. Some were aprehensive, others thought I was a sex offender waiting to strike, while most were so thirsty they looked ready to blow me there and then for it.

One final trip and I'm face to face with the blissfully unaware reality tv star. She sees the free drink. She sees me. She does the maths.

'Ere mate, is that for me? See, some people know how to treat a celebrity!'

'No way love, can't you afford a drink or two after being on Big Brother?'

And off I fucked to get rounded and vomit violently into the cloakroom. Good times.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Mon 20 Apr 2009, 14:14, 4 replies)

Faking not stirred
I used to work at The (once great) Scotsman newspaper. A man once phoned our London office asking to speak to the newsroom there.

"Who's calling, please?" the receptionist asked.

"Sean Connery."

"Sorry?"

"Sean Connery."

"Sean Connery, the film star?"

"Yesh."

"You're having a laugh."

"No, thish ish Sean Connery."

"Very funny. Bugger off. Why would a film star phone this rag?"

She no longer works there.

And Big Tam no longer picks up the phone to speak to the paper - as he used to do before that call.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:53, 1 reply)

saw simon pegg in a petrol station on the weekend
desperately tried to think of something funny to say to him that he wouldn't have heard a million times already. alas 'cornetto' probably wouldn't have gone down too well, and as that was all i could think of on the spot i trudged on.


cheers.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:51, 2 replies)

Last week
I was almost distraught when I found that I had let a pot of boiling water run dry, and the bottom had been singed.

That was my biggest pan.

*sniff*
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:46, 2 replies)

I've always thought that celebrity is an odd thing
To be happy with it you have to be a little bit mental, so no wonder really that it attracts those who are a little bit odd themselves.
Or maybe I have that the wrong way around?

Anyway, I think this sums it up pretty well:

I think I always knew there had to be a time,
When I finally accepted that you would never be mine,
And all those moments, staring wistfully,
Imagining the long hours we’d spend entwined,
Were wasted minutes it never occurred to you to expect.

You never saw me trailing behind your every move,
Counting my steps to your steps so our pace remained smooth,
Or if you had it would only be with fear,
That my face was once more there, grooved
A carefully close distance when you turned unexpectedly.

But I never expected to be sat here crying,
Involuntary tears, not like yours, without even trying,
Looking at the one photo I managed,
The only time you looked right at me, smiling,
Because intrusively, I was finally what you expected.

Sorry for lack of funnies, I just like it ;)
( Jessie © needs pirate name suggestions, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:42, 1 reply)

The whole FryLift saga
By day I do things to websites. One of the sites I do things to belongs to a certain Mr Fry. He'd been abroad filming documentaries for a while, but had expressed a wish to take us out for a bit of a "thankyou" do.

I was really nervous of clamming up and not being able to think of anything interesting to say (i.e. acting normally), but he was really very lovely. He took us up to the top of CentrePoint at Tottenham Court Rd. for drinks, and we spent several very pleasant if slightly surreal hours chatting away up there.

It came to the point where we had to be leaving, so we piled into the lift to leave the building. The doors closed and we began to descend the 30 or so floors to the ground.

Suddenly there was a jolt and the lift jerked to a stop and the door half-opened, revealing half a bit of wall and half a closed door. We were a bit stuck, to put it politely.

Stephen got his phone out: "I really ought to Twitter this" he said, and did so. He then kept us entertained by reading the amusing responses people were sending. Next, he got a barman who was stuck with us to take a photograph of us all stuck, and posted that to TwitPic. As you do, I texted several friends with the subtle "Stuck in a lift with Stephen Fry. Not joking."

After half an hour of waiting (which included me telling the world's worst lift joke: "A man goes into a hotel and asks for their cheapest room. He is led down the corridor and into a tiny room at the end. He goes ballistic: "I know I asked for your cheapest room but this is ridiculous! There's no window, no TV - there isn't even a bed! What do you call this?" The bellhop replies: "The lift") we were rescued and went our separate ways.

On the nightbus home, I rang my boyfriend to let him know we were safe. He informed me that there were now hundreds of Twitter replies, and even a Facebook group on the subject! Worse still, nearly every newspaper and news site picked up the photograph and we spent the next few days splashed across the papers.
(moogal has eggs, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:39, 6 replies)

Roundhouse
There was Richard III on at the Roundhouse in Camden. I was down there enjoying some culture; sat on a bench outside The Enterprise pub just opposite quaffing ale like an alcoholic duck and smoking fags like a laboratory beagle.

An elderly American couple walk past, waiting for the Roundhouse doors to open, I catch a snippet of their conversation.

"Who wrote this?"

Flips through programme. "Errr - William Shakespeare."

"Maybe he's here tonight?"

"Could be - we should get his autograph."

And they wandered off into the night...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:32, 5 replies)

Working in events industry have met a few famousers
this a slightly off topic quicky though , we were doing a gig for some rich cunt who had a massive garden in which he'd put a few marquees , the line up for after dinner was Dionne Warwick , Des O 'Conner and the opera singer Russel Watson , chosen because his equally rich cunt mate's party the year before had tribute acts , so he got the real ones , oh and in the reception marquee he had Acker Bilk and his band.

The guys gardeners were brand new , particularly after they caught Ackers manager trying to leg it with six bottles of cristal champagne , the £ 2000.00 p bottle stuff which was for the special guests . The manager was apologetic and explained that he thought they were entitled to a rider and the gardeners agreed they were , but that it was the other stuff they were supposed to get, a snip at three hundred a pop.

Exchange was made and we proceeded to quaff the proper stuff from the neck of the bottle round the back of a tent , it was lovely but could have been a bit more chilled .

Length ? , eight of us emptied six bottles in about ten mins , happy days
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:08, 2 replies)

The hurricane
About 12 years ago now, I was in a relationship with a girl who had the most magnificent knockers in the world but thats another story. Anyway she was working in cheltenham and commuting from birmingham by train. I used to drop her off at new street and pick her up at about 7pm. I pulled onto the pick up place and low and behold, staggering along, holding onto the wall for dear life was Alex Higgins (a personal hero of mine). I picked up the bird and drove off doing another round to get a closer look. There was an old man bothering him to which the Hurricane turned around and I was just in time to see him take a swing at the guy whilst shouting "gerrrrr te FUCK, ye FUCKING CUNT!" I pissed myself at this and drove off.

On the way home she told me that he had commented on her knockers and begged her to go with him to his hotel.

I would have....
(gentleman mongoose the Lion, the Witch & the Robot, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:00, Reply)

Trivium, Eric Pollard and SLASH!!
My boyfriend and I once met the rock band Trivium at Rio’s nightclub in Bradford. They were a bunch of arrogant tossers who did in our sniff and then fucked off. Very disappointing and I’m no longer a fan.

Another time I was at a works Xmas party at a Chinese restaurant in Leeds when we saw Chris Chittell (the Emmerdale actor who plays Eric Pollard). I was incredibly drunk and was dared by my colleagues to ask him to sign my chest. I’m a sucker for a bet so I asked him to and he did! I was pretty chuffed with myself until the next day when I was kindly informed by my colleagues that he was dining with his wife and family. Yikes!

My all time favourite was meeting my idol, Slash, formally of G`n’R and Velvet Revolver.

He is a total legend and my fantastic fiancée paid a lot of money to get us `Meet and greet’ tickets when Velvet Revolver played a gig at Leeds Uni last year.
Slash was his usual cool self and happily chatted away to us and I got him and the band to sign my chest as well (it's becoming a bit of a theme for me). I was super proud and wish I’d have had the balls to tattoo it on but never mind. Oh AND he was smoking in the meet and greet room. That’s rock stars for ya!
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 12:56, Reply)

Trinitarianism
A friend of mine was a student at Cambridge. For a while, there'd been a glitch in the accommodation list which meant that she was without a room in undergrad accommodation.

However, a suite of rooms had just been vacated in college. Normally, these would be for teaching staff - but there was noone except her in need.

So this is how she ended up living in what had been Ludwig Wittgenstein's rooms.

Every so often, she'd have a group of tourists knock on her door, wanting to take photographs.
"Er... OK", she'd say. "Just let me hide the pile of laundry first..."
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 12:17, 5 replies)

Stalking Hawking
Myself and a couple of friends were idling round Oxford a few years ago when we happened to see a certain electrically propelled PHYSICS GOD making his way to some function or other. Being mere pond life in the great garden of science (i.e. undergrads), we were too afraid to go up and talk to him. That didn't stop us from following him round Oxford for half an hour though.

It's a good thing, I think, that Prof. Steve is a rather distinctive looking chap. Half an hour of pointing and giggling at a man in a wheelchair would normally result in some funny looks.
(Concrete Cow, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 11:58, Reply)

Death of a Tortured Genius
My mate Steve is a HUGE Elliott Smith fan. A few years back I met Steve in our local and he was inconsolable. Apparently the angelic-voiced musical genius had taken a kitchen knife and stabbed himself in the heart earlier that day, ending a somewhat tourtured time on Earth, what with the heroin addiction and having to perform at the Oscars one time.

I remember Steve, sobbing like a big girl into his beer as he relayed the story: "Do you know what this means, Spanky?" He said, all serious and pale.

I thought about it for a moment...

"He couldn't find the knife block?"

Didn't go down too well, I can tell you...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 11:48, Reply)

I work in a Kangol shop.
I work there purely for the reason that I might meet Samuel L Jackson one day, should he come in for a beret.

No luck yet. He shops online, I'll wager.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Mon 20 Apr 2009, 11:10, Reply)

It’s cold outside, there’s no kind of atmosphere…
In 1998 I worked for a few months at Bristol Airport in the newsagents and behind the bar. It was a really shit job but you did get to serve the occasional famous person. Most of the cast of “Casualty” came through at some point (especially the day they were filming there), Acker Bilk, Paul McGann (of Withnail fame) and various sporting types. To be honest I didn’t give a monkeys, it was interesting selling Paul McGann a Daily Mail as I had to fight the urge to shout “Scrubbers!” in his face (yes I know it was Richard E Grant who said it, but I always laugh at that bit).

One day I was bored out of my trolley manning the till in the departure lounge shop and I heard an unmistakeable Liverpudlian accent, I thought to myself “That sounds just like Craig Charles”. It was Craig Charles, “The Last Human”, Lister him-very-self. Now lets get one thing straight, I love the first few series of “Red Dwarf”, my older brother used to record them for me as they were on past my bedtime and I can probably quote various episodes line for line. This was a big deal for me.

He came into the shop and started browsing the books. I thought “sod it, I have to say hello” so I left the little cubicle I had to stand in and approached Mr. Charles with my hand extended…did he run away? Did he tell me to fuck off? Did he call his aide over to tell me to fuck off? No. He shook my hand and happily chatted to me for a few minutes. He asked me how Robert Llewellens book “The man at platform five” was selling; I informed him that I hadn’t sold a copy. He genuinely looked disappointed. I asked him what he had been doing recently and he told me he had just finished recording “Robot Wars”. Shamefully I said “oh” in a disappointed voice (I vowed there and then to watch the entire series). We even shared a joke when I pointed out that normally the security staff didn’t get off their fat arses, but since he had been in the shop they had walked by about ten times. He said he gets that a lot.

He bought a paper and left. I was on cloud 9. Craig Charles had taken the time to chat to me and he was a thoroughly nice guy. Just when I didn’t think he could go up in my esteem any more he came back in the shop and bought Robert Llewellens book. Class.

Sorry that went on a bit, but he really was a nice man and it made my day that he took time out to talk to a till monkey, especially when you consider the fact that he is probably mobbed by Red Dwarf fans on a daily basis. I was sad to hear about his drug problems and angry at the tabloids for splashing his misery across thier front pages.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:58, 13 replies)

Amsterdam a few years back
My mates were on a Stag doo, going from bar to bar.

It was getting late so one of the guys - Ed, had had enough and said his goodbyes and went back to the hotel for some kip.

about 30 mins later his phone rings...

"Ed get back to the bar quick... youll never guess who just walked in - Noel and Liam Gallagher!!"

well, it seemed a wind up, after all, the lad in bed was their biggest fan. Been to dozens of concerts, got all their albums...

"Fuck off, hahaha...Im not falling for that..." and hangs up.

2mins later

Phone rings again...

"Mate! we're not messing... get here NOW!"

"Just fuck off and leave me alone, im not soft" says hotel in bed friend and hangs up.

2 mins later

Phone rings again

"Alright kid, is this Eddy?" says this voice in a broad Manc Accent

"Just Fuck off lads... thats the worst Manc accent ever!!" and hangs up again...clearly riled

Anyway. Eddy gives it another hour, and decides to head back to the bar..just incase.

And there, sure enough at the bar, are Noel and Liam sipping pints and playing pool with the rest of stag party.

Pretty sound really apart from them constanty scavving smokes from everyone.

They also wrote messages on beer mats which were read out to the wedding congregation at the best man speech.

Quite bizzarre really.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:53, 2 replies)

NEVER meet your heroes!
Back in my youth I was an avid fan of bodybuilding- which was a pretty strange thing for a women like me. While most of my friends were bothered about shoes/handbags/clothes etc I was more interested in keeping myself in shape and keeping track of what muscle related events I could (This was in the 80’s so I had to subscribe to magazines and whatnot).

Anywhoo one Mr Universe caught my attention. He was from Europe and eventually moved to the US to pursue a movie career. He starred in a few low budget films and I would try and get to see them if they were on (I lived in the US at the time so it was easier to catch some of his films).

Imagine my surprise when (in 1984) I answered the door to see my idol stood there in front of me. At first I was a bit confused and thought this was a wind up, especially when he asked me my name.

I answered that yes it was me and before I could say anything else he whipped out a gun and blew my head off.

Something makes me think that this guy may have been a look alike and was pissed off at someone with the same name as me but I can’t really do anything now as I’m dead.

Love

Sarah Connor
(I would have tried to make a length joke here but I will admit that I didn’t see anything like that from him as he felt no pain, had no emotions and would stop at nothing to accomplish his mission)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:32, 2 replies)

Cold, dead eyes.
Back in the carefree and innocent days of my childhood I lived in a cottage in a tiny village.
This cottage was next door to the church, so as a result my family got to know the vicar, Reverend Jack, fairly well, despite not being congregation members.

As a general rule I'm not a fan of religious-types, I just don't really "get" it, but this vicar was different. He used to play guitar, wear a Stetson and ride a motorbike. Pretty cool to a seven-year-old.

Anyway, there was a bit of excitement in our village because someone that Reverend Jack used to live with was coming to visit the church, and he was famous!

Nothing much ever happened in our part of the world, what with it being the middle of nowhere. I found out that the special visitor was a famous singer, and that the television and newspapers would be there. I was determined that I'd get famous too.

The day of the famous visitor dawned, and I got dressed and ran out into the churchyard.
There were loads of people there from the surrounding villages, men with big cameras and even a policeman!
Then a car pulled up and everyone got excited.
A man got out and walked towards the church. Towards me. And I didn't like him.

He looked waxy and strange, a bit like my great aunt had when I saw her in her coffin.
He had creepy eyes too. They were cold and dead, a bit like the eyes in the poisoned rat I'd found behind the garage.
The creepiest thing about him was his mouth.
He was smiling far too widely, with too many teeth, which were too white.
I was expecting someone cool and exciting, like a man in a leather jacket in a sports car. Not a horrible, skinny walking dead man who smiled too much.

The scary man walked right up to me and smiled extra-wide. Like a shark or a wolf. I thought that he was going to eat me. Then he put his hand on my shoulder. I started crying, and ran away.

I never got to see Cliff Richard play his "exclusive set". To be fair, I don't feel like I missed out on much.
( Cawl, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:25, 2 replies)

Heroes are fans too
I went for a pint with the singer from my favourite band. A couple of beers later and he excitedly whispered that Mike Leigh was at the next table. I was sitting there, starry-eyed, thinking "Wow! I'm drinking with the singer from my favourite band!" and he was sitting opposite, overwhelmed by the fact that Mike Leigh was three feet away from him. It was therefore a successful afternoon all round. This is one of the least grumpy posts you'll ever get from me.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:16, 6 replies)

BILL HICKS - Relentlessly Yours
My only real full on hardcore episode of mental fandom ended with a suspension from school, a meeting between the Headmaster and my parents, and the ritual burning of a shitload of gear in a metal bin in the garden (it was sadder than the end of Jedi when Luke burns the big metal cunt with the Ewoks looking a bit too much like characters out of Sesame Street).

I've been a four-eyed speccy cunt since I was about twelve. Apparently its hereditary and has absolutely nothing at all to do with the hours and hours and hours of one-handed cock wrestling.

At school other people had their heros: Gary Linekar, Peter Shilton; one lad even had a strange facination with Liberace - (it wasn't really a suprise when this camp as fuck lad came out in the sixth form). But I didn't have anyone to idolise.

And then one day while trawling through Channel 4 late at night, box of Kleenex and a tub of Vaseline at the ready, in the hope of catching the exciting bits of a Swedish art movie, I discovered HIM.

And he was fucking marvellous. And what's more, he looked quite alot like me, right down to the dodgy haircut and specs.

At last! I thought, here's someone who's almost as cynical as me! I watched in awe. I was so impressed I only switched over a few times in the hope of finding some random late night TV tittage.

My school worked along the lines of your average prisoner of war camp. The teachers were the Nazis, the prefects were the thuggish prison guards, and then there were the equivalent of the plucky airmen who'd try and conjure up ways to escape. And the role of 'fixer' was filled by my mate Terry Hopewell. I asked my mate Terry if he'd heard of this dark messiah, Mr William Melvin Hicks, he had! Fucking wooo! I also asked Terry if he could lay his hands on any of his material. At the time getting hold of anything recorded by Bill Hicks was about as fanciful an idea as receiving head from the Queen (and God knows I thought about that alot). And Terry said he knew a mate of his brother who had a copy of one of Bill Hick's gigs on tape, and he'd get me a copy. Fucking super-wootastic with a pussy-flavoured cherry on fucking top!

A few days passed and Terry gave me the copied tape in exchange for ten Silk Cut (we had a complex barter economy set up in our own private Midlands equivalent of Colditz).

And when I got home that night I listened to Relentless about five times. I was so incredibly blown away by this man, Bill Hicks, that I even forgot to wank.

And then over the course of the next couple of months I aquired every scrap of Bill Hicks memorabillia I could lay my hands on. Every bootleg tape of his gigs. Terry Hopewell was a great help in this - I imagine if he ever gets lung cancer it'll be partly my fault on account of all the fags I exchanged for this stuff.

And then I started wearing black. Lots of black. And walking a little hunched over. I listened to those tapes and every inflection of Bill Hick's voice. My bedroom became my church and my god was the venemous-tongued troubador from Valdosta, Georgia. He taught me to disrespect authority and take a shitload of drugs - and who says comedy can be bad for the youth of today?

Then one time in school I was quietly minding my own business, walking from lesson A to lesson B, when I felt a great big fucking hand grab my shirt collar and yank me backwards, nearly severing my windpipe.

It was Mr Hart - the deputy head.

"Mr Hanky - we allow guests to go through doors first in this school," he says. And then I noticed he had someone with him, some faceless twat in a suit.

Now, Mr Hart was a monumental bastard. He was a sadistic piece of shit, we used to call him Barbie; not after the big-titted, blonde haired uber babe doll, no, after Klaus, the monumental Nazi Gestapo cuntbag.

Feeling the pain in my neck and seeing that I was up against a fella who had well and truly fucked me over many times at school, I realised the game was up and I'd have to apologise and be on my merry way - there was simply no way to beat Barbie. You just had to agree with him and hope he didn't fuck you over with a months worth of detention or window cleaning duties.

And then I thought: What would Bill Hicks do in this situation?

And I looked at Barbie and his guest, some official from the council, probably. And I uttered the words with as much venomn as possible:

"Mr Hart - why don't you suck Satan's cock?"

And then the world blew up.

I was suddenly in more trouble than I've ever been in in the whole of my life.

After a few weeks of sitting round at home on suspension from school I was allowed back. Though one more fuck up like this and I'd be out the door for good. And to make matters worse my parents, bless um, made me pile all my Bill Hicks gear into the garden and set fire to it.

Very sad night, that was.

But hell, now I'm an adult and I can do what the fuck I want... Think I might spend this lunchtime trawling round Camden Market in the vein hope of finding something new for my pride and joy, my monu-fucking-mental Bill Hicks gig collection.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:16, 9 replies)

I got down on my knees and told him I was not worthy, Wayne's World-style
because the then-still-alive John Peel was just about my ultimate hero at the time.

He was a real gent, he told me I was worthy and to get up.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:01, 2 replies)

Geek fans
I've mentioned on a previous QOTW that I worked on a web site a few years ago which involved soliciting contributions from people whose ideas we admired. I had a long wishlist of people I wanted on the site, and I regard it as one of my biggest achievements that we managed to contact and get material from almost all of them. That's how I got Terry Pratchett to write us a short story and Neil Gaiman to make us a poem, and best of all, I chatted to Douglas Hofstadter - the only time I've found my voice shaking when speaking to someone.

The best bit was that because the site had a puzzle element, all of these people had to hide puzzles in their material, which meant that not only did Pratchett write us a story, but I got to go back to him and say 'that's great, but do you think you could hide an acrostic in it?'
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 9:39, Reply)