I've met quite a few famous people in my time. I've dined out on the fact that I once told Uri Geller to fuck off. My dog once savaged John Noakes. I started a chorus of three hundred people shouting "I don't belieeeeeve it" at Richard "Victor Meldrew" Wilson who was trying to holiday incognito in Florida. They love it really. It's an attention thing.
I worked at Elstree for a while several years ago. At the time it was Famous Person Central, as they recorded Grange Hill, EastEnders and Top of the Pops there. However, it wasn't the done thing to wonder round pointing at the talent and saying "'Ere, you're thingy off the telly," so you'd just exchange "I know who you are" glances while they shoot you one saying "Piss off, saddo."
On this particular day, I was in the canteen (one of the better ones, they've even got those ketchup bottles in the shape of a tomato on the tables. Classy.) sharing a table with Sanjay and Gita from 'Enders and a couple of unnamed erks from Grange Hill, as you do. As I cleared up after a fine, fine meal involving chips and beans, I felt the urge to go to the toilet. So I sat there, in my stall, doing the business, when the trouble started.
The was one hell of a commotion coming from the next stall down. Grunting, groaning, shouting and a smell straight from the pit of hell. It was horrible and a damn good thing I was on the toilet already. I made my escape, and spent a good five minutes washing my hands, just so I could see who it was dumping illegal Weapons of Mass Destruction in a toilet near Borehamwood. I was joined by Ian Beale, a refugee from the third stall down, who perched himself on the sinks, waiting. A small crowd was beginning to form, all nonchalantly washing their hands three times over until He Who Brings Earthquakes showed his face. The groaning seemed to reach a crescendo, and them stopped. The toilet flushed. Two minutes later, it flushed again. And the door opened.
It was Jules Tavernier, taking a break from Eastenders to resurface the M1. I played it cool. I was surrounded by soapy superstars and it was my duty not to make a fuss round the talent. So it was the proprietor of The Meal Machine that said what everyone else was thinking.
"Bloody hell, Tom, you're a smelly bastard!"
Jules/Tom was non-plussed at the crowd awaiting him, and straight off the top of his head delivered the immortal Spike Milligan line, "Oooooh, no more curried eggs for me."
Still, it's pleasing to know that famous people need the crapper just as much, if not more, than us regular mortals. I just wsh they wouldn't make such a song and dance about it.
Arses!: If the pictures aren't working, blame not one but TWO picture hosts that are down, plus blogger for not letting me change my template just when I needed to. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!