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Celebrating celebrity hypocrisy

Turns out I’m a massive hypocrite. Well, I say ‘turns out’ as if that isn’t already hugely obvious, but shut up or I’ll rip out your eyeballs with a spork. Yes, ‘rip’.

I will happily sit and judge you because of your stupid love for celebrities. I will still take the piss out of you for how you reacted in Wokmania when Justin from Hollyoaks turned up. I will still not care when Prince Naseem Hamed walks past me in Meadowhall (pre-fat, pre-hit and run or whatever it was). I will still not give a shit about your celebrity spotting nonsense magazines. And I will not spend my time in Los Angeles trying to look for people who might have been on TV once or twice and getting either excited when I do see them or disappointed when I don’t.

Turns out I’m a bit of a hypocrite on that last point, though.

See, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular outside the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, but seeing the Marx Brothers foot/handprints made me go a bit funny inside. I just stood on the slab for about ten minutes, smiling like an idiot. And Groucho had smaller feet than me HA. And Harpo signed his name with the image of a harp then an ‘O’. Clever.

So that was strike one.

Then there was the plane ride. Standing, waiting to be called forward I notice a man stood alone, reading a book. He stood out because he was a bit of a wall of a man, as well as being heavily tattooed – oh, and the fact that he looked like I’m going to look in about 20 years. Yes folks, none other than Henry Rollins was waiting to board the same plane as I was. I had time to approach him and pester him in a non-dickish manner, possibly getting a photo and uttering the word “legend” at him.

Instead I just stood, gawking, from across the lounge. Too scared to go near him, too intimidated to even say his name above a muttered whisper to the others with me who didn’t know who he was.

Then, of course, I went to my seat on the plane only to find I was sat next to (well, next-but-one, with a travelling companion acting as a buffer) the lead singer of one of my favourite bands, New Found Glory. Ten hours of uninterrupted access to someone I actually like and respect? That’s the recipe for something that could make legendary anecdotes in future years.

Naturally I said nothing more than “no worries mate” when he thanked me for moving for him so he could go for a piss (he pisses like I do! What are the odds!). In my defence I didn’t want to wake him up or keep him awake – it was a redeye flight after all – but surely I could have said something?

Yes, but I was starstruck and nervous. Because it turns out I’m just as bad as you mortals when it comes to these things. I was the same with Bret Hart last year – I only got a photo with him because someone more normal than I asked him for one first, so the ice was broken.

Stupid world. I should have just gone and slapped Rollins on the head and got off with Jordan.

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