...dare I?

Walking along the Thames one day in the early 80's, we saw the then-Bond coming the other way (not actually along the Thames, you understand; I can't be bothered to go back and rephrase it.)

Anyway, my 15 year-old mate thought he'd strike up a conversation with the words "Alright, Rog, bit parky, innit?"

I've never forgotten Mr Moore's rejoinder: "Brisk, is it not?"

Neither of us knew what that meant, or whether you were supposed to say yes or no in reply. And Rog just carried on walking away while we stood dumbly, wondering if we'd ever get to use such elegant constructions in our own mundane lives.

For weeks afterwards I tried chatting up girls by dropping "brisk is it not" into conversations whenever I thought it might impress them. It never did.

..in the car park of the Congregational Church in Saltaire on Monday when Stuart Maconie wandered into its grounds and paused to admire its Grade One Listed glory.

straight towards John Cleese. As we passed, I turned to get a better look at him, tripped, twisted my ankle and screamed at the top of my voice. Everyone looked at me except Mr Cleese who strolled on. I guess he gets people screaming about parrots and doing silly walks every day.

... but many years ago (sometimes in the mid 80s) I was living in Malvern and Clive Gregson & Christine Collister were playing at a local pub during some music festival. Assuming, in a sleepy little town like Malvern, that I could just pay on the door, and arrived to find the place sold out. I tried every trick in the book to worm my way in, all to no avail. Distraught and downhearted, I was about to make way to another pub to drown my sorrows when I decided to go for a pee first. Standing at the urinal in the outdoor lavvie who should walk in but Clive Gregson himself. I told him that I had intended to see the show and, while delighted that they'd sold the place out, was disappointed that I couldn't get in. After putting Little Clive away, he just said "follow me." We walked back to the front door of the pub and Clive told the bloke on the door "he's with me" and I was in.

Top bloke, that Clive Gregson.

I'm almost loathe to admit that during a break Clive & Christine were selling tapes. The trouble was the cigarette machine was behind them with no way to access it. I was trying to find a way to get to the machine without disturbing proceedings but Christine thought I was looking for a tape. When I told her I just wanted a packet of fags, she took my money, asked "which ones?" and procured my ciggies.

So all in all, quite a successful evening.

During the interval at an acoustic duo show, I stood next to Simon Nicol-out-of-Fairport Convention at the urinal. Not wishing to simply whistle the time away, and as he was from out of town, I enquired politely whether he had anywhere local to stay. He (in retrospect understandably) rather nervously confirmed that he was "fine, thanks".

My mates and I are getting stuck into a game of footie. Jumpers for goal posts, rush-goalie if too many people have to leave to go home for supper early, scores measured in dozens and so on.

At the touchline, or rather, standing on the path that runs where the notional touchline lies, is a tall good looking bloke with a young lad in tow, a bit younger than most of us, but lanky and sporty looking. They are obviously father and son. No one else recognises them, but I have a strong suspicion I know exactly who they are.

'Do you wanna play?' we ask the lad, who shyly smiles and declines the offer. Dad and lad watch us thrashing up and down the park for another ten minutes or so before waving us goodbye, and with a 'Have a good game, lads," they are off across the park and away.

'You'll never guess who was watching us play tonight', says I to Mum & Dad on my return home. 'No dear, who was it?' asks Mum.

'Basil D'Oliveira and his son', I proudly announce. It was too. No idea why they were in Plymouth, mind.

Note to young whipper snappers: Google him.

A friend of mine was rushing along Regent Street some years ago. As she turned into Oxford Street she collided with a tall man in a long coat, and found herself knocked to the pavement. The stranger extended a hand to help her up. Haloed by the London sky was the face of Peter O'Toole. "My dear lady," he said, "What can I do but buy you dinner?"

Tragically she was already late for a job interview and had to decline.

... but if it wasn't Ricky Gervais I spotted coming out of our garden center on Sunday then it was his double.

In 1987 or thereabouts I went to see Robert Cray, Johnny Copeland and Albert Collins at The Astoria in London. I was upstairs in the balcony area and I was wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Throughout the gig this tall bloke with long hair kept grinning at me and I started to get quite paranoid and put out as it was too dark to see who it was and I was trying to enjoy the show. Then at the end the house lights went up and to my astonishment it was Robert Plant. He grinned at me again and walked out.

The following night I went out for a drink at the Holly Bush pub in Hampstead. Before I got there I saw one of my friends running down the hill from the boozer shouting "Quick! Run!" So I tore up to the pub to see - guess who - Robert Plant walking off in the opposite direction. Two encounters in two days and I missed him both times.

Skip forward a year and I'm at a secret gig by him at the Marquee which was to promote his Heaven Knows single. I managed to get right down the front and was having a great time as he was playing a few Zeppelin songs for just about the first time since they'd split. At one point his microphone lead got tangled up mid-song and I sorted it out for him. At the end of the song he bent down and thanked me. My 18-year-old self was blown away - "Robert Plant spoke to me!" But the best was yet to come. Shortly after that I went to the USA for 6 months and some friends went to see Plant at Hammersmith Odeon. One of them bought two programmes and gave one to me when I got back. The reason for this generosity was that a photographer had snapped my encounter with him at the Marquee and the shot had made the double page centre spread of the programme. That was on my wall for about 5 years!

And on another 10 years roughly and I'm at the Cropredy Festival. And who do I see in the crowd, but... you guessed it, Robert Plant. This time I was determined to talk to him. So I went up and introduced myself at the bar and asked him if he'd like to come to a gig I was promoting by Martin Carthy at the 12 Bar Club in London. He was very polite and said he'd love to but he'd be away on tour. At this point he offered to buy me a drink. Now this was actually quite a difficult offer to accept - I'd been on the wagon for six months and intended to carry on with my abstinence. But I'm afraid the teenage fan in me was screaming "Robert fucking Plant is offering to buy you a 6X! You can't say no!" So I said yes, and we carried on talking (mainly about Wolves striker Steve Bull I seem to recall) until Dave Mattacks turned up and I said goodbye. The other reason I left the scene was that after not drinking for so long the pint had gone straight to my head and I was absolutely certain that if I had another in his presence I would start saying things like "Yooouuse ish my beeesssht singer! You'rrre a blaaahdy legend!" So I went and found my mates and got absolutely obliterated with them, all the while repeating "Robert Plant bought me a pint! Robert Plant bought me a pint!"

... not because we'd been invited, y'understand - because our bass player worked for the Beeb and we cheekied our way in.

Anyway, upon leaving at one-ish, I backed into an unprepossessing, shortish chap with a beard, apologised, then said very loudly "FUCK ME, IT'S JOHN PEEL."

To which he offered the only possible rejoinder, "So it is," and left in a cab with Martin Rossiter out of Gene.

Fortunately, a much better band than ours (the excellent Ballboy, to whose former keyboard player my friend is married) were doing a Peel session several months later and invited me along. Got to hang around the studio for a couple of hours beforehand, sitting at Peel's feet, gazing slaveringly up at him as he spun record after record and talked to us about them, being just exactly how you imagined and hoped John Peel would be. He didn't remember the "FUCK ME!" incident, bless him.

What a man.

My friend Greg met Peel in the toilets at the BBC once. "What did you do?!" we asked? "I sang Teenage Kicks to him" he said, "...and he said 'Thanks very much - very nice'".

During the 1980s I did a paper round in Hampstead, London. One freezing cold winter morning at 6am I was lugging my bag of papers up the street when I came across this bloke without any shoes and socks screaming at a cashpoint machine. He was wearing a white suit that was covered in stains and was holding a very large glass of brandy. When he turned round I saw that it was none other than Peter Cook.

I went up to him and asked what was the matter. He slurred at me, "I've got blahdy Keith and Ronnie at my place, we've run out of booze and this fackin' machine won't give me any money!"

"Keith and Ronnie?" I whimpered.

"Yeah! Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood! They've been up all night and they're just getting started!"

At this point I seriously considered asking him if I might tag along, but instead I said my goodbyes and went off delivering papers, all the while imagining the two Stones a minute's walk away...

in the late 80s (called Fred's, don't know if it's still there), it was very crowded and there was this bloke wearing a very loud tartan suit sitting on a bar stool. I didn't see his face but he got up and left the room and, assuming he'd gone, I sat on the stool but a few minutes later there was a tap on my shoulder and someone saying "excuse me, that's my stool" so I turned around and it was John Lydon.

The same night I saw Errol Brown coming out of the bloke's toilet.

Then there was the time I was in the Chelsea Antique Market looking through old movie posters in this tiny stall when in walked Ben Watt and Tracey Thorn. I had to squeeze by them to get out and I swear I touched Tracey's bum - by accident!

Three or four years ago we had just parked on a pub car park in Cheshire when saw a shadowy figure inspecting the back of the car with great interest, then the side, before bending down and looking underneath the front. Eventually we saw the smiling face of Clarissa Dixon-Wright loom towards the windscreen. She then walked off into the pub. Perhaps she was looking for stuck on roadkill for use in her next volume of game recipes.

Coming out of Santa's grotto (with his kids and security) in Macy's NYC almost exactly a year ago.

Stood next to Richard E Grant at a bar in the Albert Hall at a Who show. Forgot to say "I demand to have some booze".

Had a few pints with Martin Stephenson of the Daintees one New Year's Day in Edinburgh.

Drank in a bar with most of the Welsh football team ca 1993 (After they lost to Romania).

And finally I once saw former Old Grey Whistle Test presenter Mark Ellen on a flight to Montreal, he was flying economy, I guess times are tough these days ...

with the GLW some years back in a north London curry house when in walks Maureen Lipman and husband Jack Rosenthal (RIP oh greatest one).
They were seated next to us and after a few polite smiles we all carried on with our respective meals. There were a lot of nods and whispers directed towards the famous couple but I resisted the urge to fawn over them despite having huge admiration for both. Imagine my surprise when Lipman turned to my wife (who is a nurse) and thanked her for looking after her so well during a recent stay in hospital. The GLW - who is cooler than a fridge at the best of times - smiled graciously and then began to chat away to her former patient about some very yucky medical procedures while us husbands looked down at our curries with rather less enthusiasm than we had 5 minutes earlier.

David "Heppo" Hepworth in the queue for passes for the campsite at the Cornbury festival a couple of years ago. You'd think that sponsoring a stage would get you some kind of dispensation - a helicopter direct to the backstage area and a Portakabin to kip in, at least - but apparently not.

At the risk of causing a scene in the Word office, I should mention that I'm pretty sure The Love Trousers were on stage at this point. Maybe David thought the queue would be shorter then as everyone would be watching.

is rarely starstruck because she has never heard of most famous people. For example, when walking our dog on the local park she met up with a few neighbours for a chat as the dogs frollicked. The topic of conversation twisted its merry way to football, to which she retorted, "Don't talk to me about football. Bloody softies who fall down in agony at the mere hint of a slight touch..." Or words to that effect.

Other neighbours were aghast, especially as one chap sheepishly walked away. "Don't you know who he is?" they uttered. "Yes, the bloke from up our street" she replied. It was Wyn Davies, former centre forward for Bolton, Newcastle, Manchester City AND United and Wales. Still the bloke from up our street.

She also completely ignored Bobby Charlton at a dinner but is more impressed with 1958 FA Cup winning captain Roy Hartle because he is a very nice man who comes to our charity functions.

A few years ago I was standing outside the Manchester Academy with a couple of mates when a car pulled up and out jumped Mark Owen. He was due to be playing a gig there that night (this was during his solo career - and no, we were there for a different gig). He came up to us and the conversation went as follows:

Mark Owen: Hi, I'm Mark
Us: Hi
Mark Owen: Are you the support band for my gig tonight?
Us: No
Mark Owen: Oh. Nice to meet you anyway

And with that, he got back into the car and drove off.

Mani from The Stone Roses got on my train heaving on to Euston at Stockport.

Sat diagonally across from me - winked and said "Alright kid" when I shook his hand and said a quick hello. I was thrilled and giggling like an overexcited schoolgirl for the next 4 hours. I am 39 years old!

Oh - I sat next to Meadow from The Sopranos about four years ago on a flight to JFK. Signed a napkin for me and was very nice. I noted she watched Only Fools and Horses on the in flight entertainment instead of Bee Story.

About 7 years ago the GLW won a work incentive, the reward being a couple of nights away at a French Chateau / Hotel chain.

So we picked a little 12-room or so place near Avignon and flew down for the weekend.

We were sitting around the pool, the GLW asleep and dribbling, when this guy in shorts carrying a book and towel, wanders over, gets on a sun lounger and promtly falls asleep.

Never having seen a Beatle before, let alone an near-naked one, I was nevertheless pretty certain it was Macca.

It turned out that Heather was in the US on a landmine thing, so he had got his PA to book him a couple of days away.

As he was alone (no security or assistant etc), and we were the only other English people at the hotel, he basically chatted with us, on and off, the whole weekend. And he can talk.

The final thing that capped it off, was that on the morning he flew home, he left the pool to go and get changed, but then came back through the gardens to the pool to say cheers and goodbye before he left.

I have no physical record of this event, not a photo, autograph, nada!

Bloody nice bloke, though

in Switzerland, when I was about eight and on holiday with my parents, I saw Albert Tatlock off Coronation Street fiddling with one of those telescope-thingies. Grumpy git he was too. Refused to sign an autograph ( even though I was cute and polite ). Hell, maybe he was just into method acting.

It was the early 90s. I had booked a cheap return flight to Seattle through Polo Express, a courier service. In return for the cheap ticket, you had to turn up at the airport extra early and be prepared to pick up letters and/or packages from the company's rep, and deliver them at the other end. Yes, it did strike me at the time that there was much potential for nefarious activity. I chose Seattle because it sounded interesting, and I had family friends in Portland and Vancouver I could visit.

So there I was in my seat, eyes wandering around for anything interesting while the rest of the passengers boarded. My gaze fell on a young woman walking along with her passport in her hand. The name was clearly visible: Miss C Collister. I did a double, then a triple take. It was her! Behind her was a tall, balding fellow with glasses. It was Clive Gregson. I was on the plane with my then favourite act in music.

As if that were not enough, I'd bought a present for my friends in Portland, big music fans: Gregson and Collister's then current album, Love Is A Strange Hotel - and I had it in my hand baggage! Could I resist the temptation? Of course I bloody couldn't. Later in the flight when stretching my legs I noticed Clive doing the same, standing at one of the windows. I walked up and began "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I'm a big fan of yours..." He was very affable, and after a couple of minutes went and fetched Christine, who on seeing the copy of the CD I had, said her first words to me: "Bloody hell!"

So my friends got a signed copy of the CD. It turned out that they were doing a short tour of the Pacific North West, including all the cities I was going to. I managed to go and see them in Vancouver. During the concert, Clive, always good value between songs, launched into an anecdote about their flight over, which inevitably culminated in "and then this bloke came up to me and said [adopts nerdy voice] 'Ooh hello, I'm a big fan of yours...' - 'cos they all talk like that you know..." At this point I called out "Says who?" and completely put the poor chap off his stride. The anecdote fizzled out, but the concert was superb.

...alongside Robbie Williams. It was 1996 and he was in his just-left-take-that peroxide blonde period.

Nothing interesing happened, I didn't even look at his willy.

After all that, I had completely forgotten a rather sweet scene on the Eurostar from Paris to Waterloo.

It was back in the 90s and I found myself sitting across the aisle from Dr Alex Paterson. He had a table seat and sitting opposite him were a lovely elderly couple who started a conversation with him. They chatted about various topics. Eventually they asked him what he did for a living. To which he responded by saying he was a musician.

When the train pulled into Waterloo and they said goodbye, the elderly lady said "What was the name of your group?". "The Orb" was the response. To which she said "If you ever come to York for a concert, we will come and listen to you play". I thought this was lovely. I can picture it now, the two of them popping along to see that nice Dr Alex and his band. Them watching everyone mong out to Little Fluffy Clouds. How I wish that had happend.

Needless to say, I was too shy to say hello to Dr Alex and anyway, his chat with the elderly couple was so nice that I did not want to interrupt.

I once spent a rather bizarre ten minutes explaining the intricacies of a government scandal to William Shatner. It was the occasion when Cherie Blair became embroiled in buying flats through her new age friend Carol, and her fraudster boyfriend. Shatner kept asking, "Where does Cherie's sexy friend fit into all this?"

on the Shatner Incident. How come you were there? And who is Cherie's fraudster boyfriend? Does TB know about him?

was at an awards ceremony the other night, and was knocked over by paparazzi making their way towards Jordan, who stepped over his prone body on her way to her car.

You can imagine his displeasure at being described as 'a tramp' by The Daily Star yesterday.

used to run a pub in Stockport. I believe she barred a young Liam Gallagher. A pub window was broken shortly afterwards. The two events are of course unconnected.

before his Franz Ferdinand days, Alex Kapranos used to book my band to play in Glasgow's 13th note pub as he worked there and seemed to quite like us. His band went on to do slightly better than mine.

belonged to a woman that stepped onto an elevator I was riding in. She was not only extremely well endowed, she was braless and dressed in a (way too tight) button up shirt that was completely undone except the top few buttons and the bottom few buttons exposing her from neck to navel.

They were bulging at me and I couldn't help gawking. I was staring at her chest so intensely that it took me a few moments to notice that she did not get on alone, she was with the basketballer Dennis Rodman.

To put that in perspective I was so transfixed by her that I didn't notice a seven foot tall black man with dyed blonde hair and tattoos down each arm had also joined me in that tiny space.

They were completely off their heads, he stood in the middle of the lift swaying from side to side, rapping to himself, and she seemed annoyed that pushing buttons at random does not make restaurants appear.

about 6 years ago...he barrelled in the door when I was attempting to exit the jacks and nearly knocked me on my arse. He's a big fella but is really polite in the way of many Yanks of my acquaintance and sent a bottle of wine over to our table as an apology. His bird at the time, Pamela Anderson, was very pleasant, too.

In the toilets at Auckland Airport. A tall, tanned, familiar-looking gentleman strikes up a small conversation about long haul flights. I replied, topically, that it can also play havoc with the bladder. "Yeah, tell me about it" he said in an eastern european accent. I walked through in front of him and the press pack raised their cameras but then dropped them when they saw it was only me.

It was only when the flashing began in earnest that I realised it was one Goran Ivanisevic.