The Thing Is...Over There

I've written before about rules of engagement with famous people, but was amused what a pickle I got into the other day when I found myself standing next to that American actor Michael Chiklis who plays The Thing in The Fantastic Four. (He was also in that fine American cop show The Shield.)

The trouble is that Londoners - or maybe it is just me - are just too urbane and polite and rude and clumsy and British and world-weary to really understand what they are supposed to do when put face to face with an famous person. I imagine in Hollywood there are some very clear rules of engagement, since the fame thing is the only show in town (unless I am doing LA a disservice as the world's largest producer of tomatoes or box files or something). But here, we don't know what to do, because we (well I) get to thinking "Oh there's so and so, he/she's famous, oh fuck I'm walking towards them, it is him/her isn't it, and I liked that film they were in, but I don't want to look like a freak or a stalker, and - shit, still moving towards them: feet stop it, they are looking at me, they look freaked out, is that their wife/husband, she/he must get so fed up with people going up to their husband/wife, and I am now technically a stalker because I have no control of what I am doing in the presence of fame, and I'm breathing, should I say hello, seems churlish not to, and I could write about it on hhn I guess, do people still ask for autographs, or is that really old fashioned, and trying not to look too mad, and....oh, they've gone..."

So I didn't get The Thing's autograph, and I felt bad about it because The Shield was a really excellent show, and I think Chris (for he is my new best friend now that I've seen him across a hotel lobby) never got to find out that I (me) thought he was a great actor way before he got into big Hollywood super-heroing.

All the above was much trumped by my mate Dezzo on Tuesday night when he punched Ian Wright in the face in a pub. It was accidental. Dezzo was putting his jacket on in a crowded bar, and Wrighty had slipped in to the seat next to us right behind Dezzo's elbow. For a split second I did think Wrighty was going to retaliate when Dezzo caught him on the head with his fist. But Dezzo was deeply apologetic, although he did come out of the bar saying "Bit of an attitude that bloke. It wasn't exactly pleasant for me having to touch his bald head." He was deeply, sweetly oblivious to Wrighty's fame. As far as he was concerned, Wrighty was just another bloke in the pub. Which - in the end of the day - I guess he was. (Although in deeply embarrassing hhn star fuck mode, when Wrighty saw me (I'm a bit taller than Dezzo) and said "Well, I'm glad it wasn't you", I batted my eyelids, said "Not my style dude", and magnanimously shook his hand. What a tosser. Me, not Wrighty.)

This hhn versus celebrities remains an occasional series, since you can't really get around London any more without having to decide what to do when faced with the famous. The Waunch, who is perhaps the biggest star fucker that we know (known as he is to travel the length of the land in order to be seen having a drink with D list celebs) may have further tales to report? Me? Fame means nothing to me, although I remain hopeful that somehow, somewhere in August, I will become Prince's new best friend.