"The Muffin Man"
I'm back from my adventure in that there London, and I can report, comedy fans, that absolutely nothing of interest happened to me whatsoever. Sorry.
I did, however, quite literally run into the King of Camp, Dale Winton, outside my hotel in Drury Lane, almost bowling him under the wheels of a passing taxi with my case (otherwise known as The Black Hole for its ability to weigh more that even the heaviest creatures on Earth even when empty).
My total conversation with this giant of televisual entertainment was as follows:
Winton: Whoops-a-daisie! Mind how you go!
...which is rather better than my usual record of insulting celebrities. I firmly believe that Uri Geller still has the indian sign on me after I once told him to fuck off. Incidentally, the 37th greatest British variety talent is far shorter than he appears on TV (it's the law apparantly, where all TV stars must be under four feet tall so they can fit on screen. Newsreaders are exempt as long as they remain seated, while nineteen foot tall Matthew Kelly has to stand in a specially dug hole), and he is also very, very, very, very, very, very suntanned, giving him the appearance of a walnut in a comedy red suit.
On the way home, I also found that Waterloo Bridge is about three miles long, and only a complete fool would try to walk across it in the pissing rain with Vanessa Feltz on their back. Live and learn.