Celebrity Stalking

Following Monday’s unexpected encounter in Pizza Express with David Beckham and family, I got to thinking about some of the “famous” people I’ve met or bumped into over the years. Famous is in inverted commas for a good reason as I don’t include those who are famous for simply being famous.

The biggest name has to be Princess Diana. I bumped into her a few times, once almost literally. Working in and around Knightsbridge for quite a few years gave me the chance to see the glitterati on numerous occasions. The first time with PD was early one morning when she almost mowed me down at a crossing, having run through a red light on her way to the Harbour Club. If I hadn't jumped back onto the pavement maybe both her, and my life would now be quite different. The second time was a year later, this time at the Harbour Club itself, where the Managing Director was showing me around one morning in my capacity as their local bank manager. We walked into a changing room and there was PD, in her skimpies, getting changed. Neither of them batted an eyelid; he apologised and we walked out. Still shocked I said, “was that….?” To which he replied “yes it was”. Tight sods didn't even offer me complimentary membership. And that was the end of that.

Third time was in Montpelier’s, a lovely restaurant close to Harrods. (http://www.montpelianorestaurant.com/default.html) I’d been invited there for lunch by a wealthy customer who was extremely posh but for some reason had taken quite a shine to my East End way of speaking. We were one of the first in the restaurant that day and were seated at a small table, where I spent much of the meal telling my off colour jokes and anecdotes to my host, something she found most amusing. As the place filled out I noticed that people kept looking in our direction. I lent forward and asked if I’d been talking too loud, only to be told that they weren't looking at me but at the person behind me. Not wishing to appear too obvious, I “dropped” my knapkin on he floor and bent down to catch a crafty glimpse of who it was. Well, no prizes for guessing who. She was sitting no more then two foot behind me with a young officer in uniform. I expect she learnt quite a few off colour jokes that afternoon to tell back at the Palace, especially the one about the Irishman and the Prostitute who’d had a curry.

A few of the staff from Midland Bank, Knightsbridge c1982

The final time was in Egypt. After our Honeymoon in Turkey, Irene and I wanted to go somewhere hot but archaeologically interesting. OK, I mainly wanted the history and Irene wanted hot, which is why we ended up in Egypt. Hand on heart, I'd never, ever go back. Horrid, horrid place, full of miserable, insulting, grasping tradesmen and surly people. It could be that my views are coloured by us both contracting Amoebic Dysentery after four days and having to spend the next week within running distance of a toilet, something almost impossible as sanitation seemed to be a foreign concept. Anyway, I digress. The second week of our holiday was in Aswan, staying at the Old Cataract Hotel which featured in the film Death on the Nile.

Old Cataract Hotel. Aswan

By now we had to ensure that after drinking or eating anything we were within 10 or at most 20 minutes walk time to a loo, as liquids took 10 minutes to pass through us and food slightly longer. As I said, horrid, horrid place. Virtual prisoners in our hotel room, unless we went without food or water, we noticed that everything was being whitewashed or painted. Jokingly we said that they must be expecting the Queen, only to be told that Princess Di was visiting later that day. Sure enough, she turned up with a motorcade and was ushered through the crowd waiting at reception. Was that a flash of recognition as she turned to look at me? Nah, surely not.

Oh, almost forgot, I also had sunstroke after visiting the Valley of The Kings, despite being tooled up like Lawrence of Arabia and drinking litres of bottled water. As Jim Hawkins says at the end of Treasure Island, “Oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed (is)land”.

Of course, we've bumped into quite a few celebs over the years, but they're for another story.

It's better to give?

Christmas is a time for many things; family, faith, quiet contemplation of the year that's almost over, which side of the family will you spend it with, and most important of all, which one one of you will drive so the other can get bladdered, that sort of thing.
It's all of the above for me even though I'm not one for the twinkle, unlike Irene. However, the thought of having such a good time whilst others less fortunate are shivering under an overpass or searching for a pissy cardboard box to sleep in whilst I'm tucking into a three bird roast and necking back a warm Barolo makes me feel somewhat guilty, so when I saw the advert for Crisis at Christmas saying that for £20 they could provide meals and somewhere to sleep over the festive season for one person, I jumped at the chance and flashed the plastic. It's a great charity and one worth supporting.

Normally I don't like Chuggers of any sort, and save my pennies for charities such as the RNLI, Poppy Appeal and the Sally Army, always dropping a few coins into the tins proffered by the brave souls out there looking to help others. However, I was moved by the thought of someone being cold at Christmas and made a donation online, together with my details so they could claim Gift Aid. Feeling suitably righteous I went on to have a lovely Christmas, free of guilt and angst.

Imagine my surprise when, late last night whilst I was watching the endless Qi reruns on Dave, I received a phone call from Crisis, thanking me for my donation. The guy was very chatty and I soon realised why. He wanted me to sign up for a regular direct debit of "only" 75p a week. I warned him, politely, that I wasn't going to sign up nor would I be making regular payments, but he kept on telling me of all the wonderful things my money would do for the homeless. Normally at this point I tell unsolicited callers to go forth (and multiply) but as this one was nice I ended the call without expletives of any sort. I could see Irene was surprised.
This sort of unwanted follow up reminded me why I don't normally give to charities. The hassle afterwards. Thinking back over the years the only charity that hasn't pestered me after making a donation was the Gurkha appeal.
Red Cross, Disaster Emergency, Oxfam etc, all hassled me after I had sent them money. Not only that but I then experienced months of receiving various begging letters through the post from a multiplicity of charities who had no doubt purchased my details from the one I'd contributed to.
So, here's one of my three New Year resolutions. Next time I give online to charity I'll no longer provide my details. Yes, this means that they will miss out on a 20% tax rebate, but I'll be saved hassle and no doubt a few less trees will not be turned into begging letters. Its a real shame but the charities have no one to blame but themselves.