Yesterday afternoon I passed Danny Baker on the street and, two hours later, Paul Morley. Seeing David Quantick would have bagged me the ex-NME hat-trick.

walked straight past Steve Hogarth of Marillion in downtown New York and despite having been a fan for 20 + years, couldn't bring myself to tell him I was a fan. Suspect this has more to do with me than him. Tres strange, non?

at a recording of 'Fantasy Football' round the time of Brutal Youth. Shuffled up afterwards to get an autograph, smiled, and... opened and shut my mouth noislessly, in the manner of a beached flounder in its death throes. Good man that he is, he put his scribble down and smiled back in a knowing, yet non-patronising way. It had probably happened to him before.

http://www.wordmagazine.co.uk/content/another-van-morrison-tale#comment-...

I stood next to Mark Ellen at the bar at a Nick Lowe gig, but then I imagine most of London has at some stage.

I did stand next to a well refreshed Rory Gallagher in a pub one time but was too overawed to speak to him, despite him being, by all accounts, the most unassuming bloke you could meet.

I enthusiastically grabbed the hand of Andy Cairns of Oirish rockers Therapy? at a gig a couple of years whilst a little drunk and I think he thought we were aquainted but he had failed to recognise me so responded with an uncertain'Oh hi mate, how are you?'. 'Ummm great' I responded before an awkward silence ensued and I dashed off to the bar again.

As a child I was a little obsessed by New Zealand cricketer Dion Nash for some reason and during a break in an exhibition match I dived into the gents and asked him for an autograph while he was mid pee. He patiently finished what he was doing, shook, washed his hands and signed my crumpled scrap of paper.

Stephen Fry has some good advice from the other side, that of a famous person used to being approached by strangers, in his blog http://stephenfry.com/blog/?p=19 .

I once spotted Mark Ellen in The Fitzroy Tavern (I think that was the pub anyway) in London's glamorous Charlotte Street. I turned to my chum and gestured discreetly in the general direction of Mr-Thumbs-Aloft-Lookie-Likey and said "That's Mark Ellen!" in an excited sort of way.

"Who?" was the distinctly unimpressed response. Sorry Mark.

In a thread titled "Giggling like a schoolgirl", why is everybody talking about Mark Ellen?

in the intermission at one his gigs. I asked him to play a certain song in the second half which he duly obliged but in his own inimitable fashion prefaced it with the words 'some c**t in the audience asked for this one, not sure I can remember the words'.

Also chatted with Martin Stephenson at one of his gigs - he was cool because we spent the ime slagging off Sunderland FC.

Proudest moment as a dad was meeting Bobby Charlton at the opening of our Manchester depot and getting his autograph. Taking it home for me son and him asking me 'who is that dad?'
Shouldnt have bothered.

off the travel shows, I literally bumped into Michael Palin in a book shop. At that stage I was a student with the obligatory Monty Python obsession and was rendered speechless. Eventually I manged a few garbled words, in response to which he smiled, shook my hand, chatted briefly and moved on. Thoroughly decent bloke even before he bought his first round the world ticket.

Remind me to tell you someday about the time I tried to chat up Marianne Faithfull backstage at a Van Morrison gig. She was very patient given the circumstances.

Mid-Eighties. In the bookshop that was under my flat in Notting Hill. I was frozen to the spot, my entire body Botoxed by the waves of pure love that gurgled out of my every pore. She edged past me with a smile (a smile!) and I caught a brief waft of her perfume. Now I know what the flowers in heaven smell like.

"Can I have your autog..."? You must be kidding.

Robbie Coltrane was walking towards me and I thought about saying something, but I thought if he tells me to eff off I'd feel extra, extra small.

Not three days ago I held a door open for rugby legend (Welsh division) Gerald Davies. I've met my fair share of so called celebrities over the years but much to the amusement of my brother all I could manage by way of a response to his " thanks very much" was a "gnnnppphhhh".

Some years ago I was taking part in a go-cart race in Kent and Vic Reeves was there watching. It was only an amateur event, but he stayed the whole time.

I was hungover and did not wish to talk a load of nonsensical bollocks to the great man. So I let the rest of Camden Town bother him instead. Who would be famous...

I saw Paul Heaton in a pub in Manchester not so long ago, got very excited (life-long Housemartins / Beautiful South follower) but couldn't bring myself to talk to him.

I actually think it's often best not to. What is there to say?

Us: "You're...YOU"
Them: "Yes, I am. Er, thanks."

I sat behind David Hepworth at a Little Village gig many moons ago, to shy to say hi though!

...is weird as I've been in music retail all my life and met loads of 'stars' and never blinked an eye! By the way, can't stand his music, but Bruce Dickinson is by far the nicest rock star I've ever met- by a country mile!

Some years ago, there was a Barry Humphries retrospective - artworks, photographs, video, costumes etc - as part of one his stage tours. I went and had a look at it one afternoon, and as I left, I saw the man himself walking with someone I assumed was his PA. (Attractive blonde woman - what else would she be?). He was rugged up in coat and hat and clearly didn't want to be recognised, so I dismissed any thought of an autograph, but it was a nice way to round off the exhibition.

Have also met Neil Finn and Terry Jones of Monty Python. Both charming chaps, obviously used to inept fans saying, “Hi, you’re…”

Back in the olden days Melbourne had only one decent import record shop, it was called Missing Link. One day I was going in there and Nick was sitting on the step outside with a couple of his equally scruffy friends blocking my entrance. I asked if I could squeeze past and he duly slouched to the left and I went inside.

It occurred to me at the time that of all the places to sit, he picked the one place in Melbourne that he was absolutely certain to be recognized. For years I used that as proof he was an absolute knobhead.

However much, much, later I realised the shop was owned by his manager and he may have just been waiting for him so I may have been a touch unkind to him.

Another record store in Mebourne, I was walking out and a gentleman stood to one side to let me through.

I looked at him and thought "I know you", then without stopping I thought "That's Mick Jones" and I turned into the street, not looking where I was going (too busy watching Mick) and I collided with a woman who could only be described as "a busty blonde."

I apologised to the woman and looked back to see Mick cacking himself. It was like something out of Benny Hill. Not how most Clash fans would picture spotting one of their heroes. It was in the Big Audio Dynamite days. More musician spotting in Melbourne record shops stories to follow as they come to hand...

....I was idly browsing in the Food Hall of Selfridges in Brum, waiting for Mrs Path to come back from the loo, if I recall, when a tall bald fella came up and asked if I went to school with him. When I said to the contrary, he got to wondering how he knew me and we had a chat. I revealed I had been to his shows a number of times and had possibly chatted to him at the outside bar at his yearly country bash. (Who could ever possibly remember?). When she came back from aforesaid, Mrs Path was most surprised to see me chatting to Dave Pegg, not least as I had pointed her out to her earlier.
(She tires of my pointing out ageing folk-rockers as an earlier posting of mine has revealed)
(If I had said Dave Pegg out of Tull, given the strand alongside, would that make it more stimulating?)
When I was a student I was allocated to a chap on the private wing of the hospital to interview about his condition. Sadly, Ian Dury had to cancel his pile surgery on that occasion so the moment was lost.

Several years ago, my brother was looking at a little display of Ivor Cutler books in a bookshop.
A very familiar, elderly Scottish voice behind him (do the accent if you can) said:
"You're not thinking of buying any of those books are you?"
My brother, startled but delighted, replied, "Well, I was thinking I might, yes. Which one would you recommend?"
"None of them. They're all rubbish. Steal them".

Ivor Cutler used to shop at my local Waitrose. He used to cycle there, wearing a hat with a little plastic sunflower pinned to it. One day I noticed a little girl, probably about 4 years old, going around roaring like a lion at shoppers to see their reaction. Most just chuckled. Then she approached Cutler. She roared. Cutler turned round to face her, smiled, and then gave a roar back, hands raised in the claws position. The little girl looked up at him for a minute. Then she raised her claws too, took a deep breath and gave the biggest roar she could possibly muster. Cutler laughed out loud before continuing shopping. It made my day.

....nor am I telling it for any reason of personal aggrandisement.
When Bruce Springsteen played Newcastle St James's in 1985 I was in the gents attached to the directors dining room when I found myself in the presence of the legendary Frank Worthington.

"You're Frank Worthington," I blurted.
"And you're David Hepworth," he replied.
He must have fallen asleep during the snooker and woken up for "Whistle Test".
Made my day.

Walking down a small side street in Madrid,`´bout two years ago , I spotted a leather-jacketed and coiffed Paul Weller walking up the street towards me, with a burly chap by his side. Since the pavement was under some construction , we had to squeeze past, he apologised in crap Spanish and I told " No worries, mate ". He patted me on the shoulder and went on his way. His gig in Madrid had been cancelled as the access road was under constructiuon and they couldn´t get the gear into the venue.

I had a drink with Elvis Costelloe 20-0dd yrs ago. Nice chap, but his girlfriend / wife Cait O Riordan was very snotty

She's not really a hero but it amused me anyway. The aussie John Peel shagger lives down the road from me and I was filling the car up at the local petrol station next to her one day. I went to pay and on the way out I saw her in front of the door leaning right over to inspect a birthday card that was at the very bottom of the rack by the door. Unfortunatly her, not inconsiderable, bum was entirely blocking my exit so I rashly decided to try and shuffle past her sideways but got a little stuck halfway. I realised what it might look like if the world's most famous feminist had decided to look over her shoulder and see me attempting to reenact a position which can only be described as 'doggy style' behind her and manged to effect an escape post haste.

Ages ago I made a total tit of myself when I spotted Vic Reeves in the Gypsy Moth in Greenwich. I asked him for his autograph on the spur of the moment and, even though he was quite pleasant, I immediately felt that this was not the thing an adult should do. I slunk away feeling ridiculous. My wife has since been amazed by my ability to find myself in the same space as a number of notable people. I saw Mark Ellen at the bar at the Festival Hall on the occasion of Bert Janch's 60th birthday gig (and have to admit to being one of the trio who began singing happy birthday to him, Bert, during a lull in the music that night. Oh God...)

Waiting to board a flight to New York in 2005 I found myself browsing in Dixons at Heathrow with Paul Morley as the only other customer. Later I saw him take his seat on the same flight as me. Only a few weeks after that I saw him at the bar at the Lyric in Hammersmith at a Richard Thompson gig. He never writes, he never phones.

On that same night I bumped into BJ Cole too. "Who?", said my pal. "The guy who plays pedal steel. For everyone over the past 30 years. Dave Gilmour, Nick Lowe, er... Hank Wangford...", "Oh..."

February 2007, flying from Manchester to New York, spotted Johnny in the departure lounge. Kept himself to himself and was quite surprisingly not pestered by anyone - least of all me.

Sat in economy, which surprised me somewhat. He put the big Bose earphones on and sat quietly. No evidence of rock 'n' roll behaviour - the yogurt stayed on the trolley and off the hostess.

Three days later, flying back to Manchester from New York. There's Johnny again, on the same flight back. Not a word was spoken, but our eyes met across the lounge. A hint of a nod. I like to feel there was a flicker of recognition, and an unspoken acknowledgement that I knew who he was, but that I respected his personal space and would not bother him.

Either that or he was thinking "Oh Christ, bloody Smiths obsessives are stalking me across the Atlantic now!"

I was at the mighty Kraftwerk gig at Manchester Apollo two years ago, and was stood next to Badly Drawn Boy all night.

When the gig finished I was all intent on saying hi and ask if he enjoyed the gig, but my girlfriend (of the time!) intoned to me that whilst she hated him and his music AND silly hat, she still wanted to go and say hello as she's always starstruck - which is a bit like saying you hated Hitler and everything bad he did but if you were in a room together you'd still be polite and go over and chat!

Needless to say, and probably in full earshot of him hearing her, I still managed to shake his hand and blurt out in something in a probably indecipherable way, whilst said girlfriend acted like butter wouldn't melt.. AND said immediately afterwards 'I wish he'd shave his beard as well'!.. JEEZ FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi one evening. I sipped my drink and watched from afar.

Cheers boys.

Some day when Juliette Binoche is available I will have my hour.

As a little lad I was laid up in hospital with what I now understand to have been a kidney infection. One day, amidst great fanfare, Jimmy Saville turned up to do a meet-and-greet with all of the patients in the kiddy ward.
As he got nearer I had to ask the nurse what was wrong with me so that I could answer his questions, and sure enough he eventually loomed alongside my bed:
"No then, now then. And wot is it wot is wrong with you then young man?"
"I've got water works".
"Crikey, have not we all young man, have not we all." And with that he jingled jangled jewellery jewerelly-ed his way out of the ward.
It took my Mum a further 2 years to stop me saying "Have not we all", until England football coach Grahame Taylor reactivated it 15 years later.

Thrilled beyond belief to discover that legends of pop supergroup Magic Christian (Clem Burke out of Blondie and the mighty Cyril Jordan of the Flamin' Groovies) are playing my local dive bar last year, I hurried down at lunchtime to check out the ticket situation. I was just leaving the hallowed establishment and I see a huddle around a pay-to-park machine - three elderly gents peculiarly garbed a la the Paisley Underground - and well I’ll be damned if one of them isn’t the great Cyril himself. I slide in behind them and introduce myself explaining our slight ‘business’ connection - I promoted a Groovies show at Aberdeen University mid-seventies. I show them how the machine works. In fact in a blur of legend-struckness I think I loaded it with my own quarters. He is delighted and sticks his hand out “Hi, I’m Cyril.” He had apparently just been telling his colleagues about playing “Aberdeen, Scotland” and ‘what a small world and are you coming to the show.....?’ You bet. My day was already made and I hadn’t heard a note yet.

In the very same sitting....outside the QPR Club shop on South Africa Road in the heart of W12. Matlock was immaculately turned out in a long camel hair coat and Jones looked like someone had just woken him up from a deep coma.

All I could do was giggle girlishly, mutter the inane pronouncement "Thank you for the music, guys" accompanied by a firm, manly handshake and then nip into the Club Shop sharpish, shaking like a leaf whilst turning the colour of a tomato.

My 6 year old son asked who they were and why Daddy had embarrassed him! I replied that they were very famous musicians. My son responded "what, more famous than Kevin Gallen?"....

Mick Jagger-Indy on Sunday party one midsummer about ten years ago. He had been invited to this "do" at the top of Canary Wharf Tower by Rosie "Reefer" Boycott and was hanging around with his minder undisturbed. I arrived late with some colleagues after playing 5-a-side and everyone was already trollied on free booze by 7.30. Nobody would talk to him despite the fact he was the only subject of conversation,apart from my colleague Jon from Norn Iron (for whom such timidity was never a problem) who simply walked up to him and said "come on over Mick and meet the lads" and, guess what, he did. He chatted away about Dartford and Richmond (which he could both see from up there) and we were all getting along great...when...a lady colleague who was battered on Chardonnay came over and said "Oh Mick, I laaarve youuu", unsuccessfully tried to grope him and he made his excuses and left the 50th floor...

At the Christmas Panto in Northampton a few years ago I sat next to my mum, who was sat next to Allan Clarke - the Hollies croonsmith, I should add, not the venerable former goal-poacher of Don Revie's vintage.

At the interval I said to Mum "That bloke sat next to you - that's Allan Clarke, that is - the Hollies croonsmith, I should add, not the venerable former goal-poacher of Don Revie's vintage."

"Is it?" she said. It was a special moment.

A small boozer just opposite the Ritz Hotel in London. A long time ago in a galaxy far far away I was once a civil servant in London and during the summers of the early '90's would spend time playing knockabout football or cricket in Green Park after work with similarly employed mates. After all that twatting about we'd trudge across Picadilly and into The Clarence for a few lagers. One hot night the place was busy and the clientele were spread out around the small door. We were making our way in slowly through the throng when I became aware of two tall guys talking to each other across this narrow main entrance, one on each side. It was Nick Lowe and Huey Lewis. Red-faced, sweaty and no doubt quite fragrant I declined to introduce myself on that occasion.

...Mark Ellen at the Turnham Green Farmers Market - God, can we get any more bourgeois? - most Saturdays. Always meant to say hello but he was always having animated discussions about well hung meat (oh yes) and I never found the right moment. The market has closed now and I instead head up to Acton for my muddy vegetables; as a Chiswick resident, Mr Ellen probably doesn't venture into the badlands of W3 so I fear my chance has gone...

I met Mark Eitzel of American Music Club in an airport lounge at Heathrow waiting to board a flight to San Francisco. After informing my colleagues of his presence (to a chorus of "Who?") I plucked up the courage to introduce myself as a fan. He was very gracious, and, I think, quite pleased to be recognised for a change. We chatted briefly and then said our goodbyes... spoke to him again in the baggage hall at SFO where he wished me a good trip.

A month later I went to see him play a solo gig in Edinburgh and spotted him alone at the bar. Went over to say Hi, and to my surprise.... he had no recollection at all of having spoken to me before. Oh well. Nice guy, but a bit forgetful... or maybe I'm just not that memorable!

For some reason I've twice found myself standing next to Norman Blake from Teenage Fanclub at gigs, but haven't plucked up the courage to say hello.

A colleague once found himself upgraded to First Class on a BA flight from LA to London, and got chatting to the 40-something lady in the next seat, a conversation that continued until they had their meal and donned their BA-issue sleepsuits to bed down (separately) on the swanky fold-out bed thingys. Chatting over breakfast prior to landing in Heathrow he asked her what line of work she was in, to which she replied "I'm a singer"... it was Madonna.

Iggy Pop gig - late seventies. Visiting the gents and who is standing next to me but Glen Matlock! Imagine it - Glen Matlock! Thirty years later I still can't think of what I should have said to him.

Having been a longtime James fan, I went to a Tim Booth solo gig & afterwards he was sat in the bar area of the club looking fairly approachable. I however, scuttled away too flustered to say anything. I'd rather keep my heroes at arms length. If they turned out to be idiots I'd feel like I'd made an unwise emotinal investment and 18 odd years of worship would be wasted. Given the choice, I'd probably always leg it in the opposite direction.

A former collegue of mine, let's call him Gareth for the sake of argument (and veracity for that matter) happened to be in Siena at the top of the Campanile (bell tower) when he espied a famous British actress of the 1960s. The actress's companion wandered near Gareth to admire the view at which point my colleague took his chance. "Would you mind asking Miss Christie if I could have her autograph please?" The companion agreed and returned to the actress who, amidst some amused laughter, put pen to paper. My colleague was a little embarrased when he read "Susannah York"!

Is the place to walk around all giggly. I saw that Mark Ellen there a few years ago, walking around with Robin Hitchcock, but was too shy to announce my admiration for the old boy. That was the year Nick Bloomfield followed me around. Hay is truly bizarre : two years ago, sitting with my son in the sunshine I saw the following parade walk past three yards away : Monty Don, AA Gill, Seamus Heaney, Al Gore; last year I saw the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Milliband brothers, and Sebastian Faulks in a matter of few minutes. All on a remote Welsh hillside.
I met David Hepworth (or 'Heppo' as he insists on being called) at the Rocking Vicar 'do' in a Yo! Sushi years ago. I babbled away drunkenly but he was charm itself.

The Background: I have a (by now very unfunny)little joke where I point at any chef appearing on tv and ask my wife if that chef is "the one married to Fern Brittan?".

The Scene: John Lewis in High Wycombe, myself and the GLW shopping when I turn the corner of the furnishings department only to almost bump into aforementioned Fern. Of course by the time I have recovered my senses and tried to point her out to my missus, Fern has long gone off towards plasma tvs and the like.

The Joke: Having missed my chance to flirt outrageously with this tv goddess, I turn to the wife and point out a (what I thought was a ) random bloke in the crowd saying "Is that the chef that's married to Fern Brittan?", only to be told in "don't you dare embarrass me" tones by my wife that "Yes, it is indeed Fern's husband!" How we laughed...

The Slapdown: I suggest that I approach the two of them and explain my little joke at which point I was dragged forcibly from the store.

....but I just felt I had to tell people who may be impressed. Yesterday had a newish chum over for lunch, and he was peering thru' my CDs. He asked whether I had any Joan Baez, clearly not up to speed with my reference to her on this blog months ago and in which I said I didn't like her voice. When I explained why, he put me to immediate shame by casually mentioning he went to school with her, even dating her sister Mimi at one stage.
I felt somewhat churlish in my remarks following that.
He left California when he was 18 and did not keep up the aquaintance.

I think I was sitting behind him on the No.30 bus a few weeks back.

What an anecdote. This story, I mean; I'm not complimenting Mr H on his lovely "anecdote".

I've met many celebs in my time, I'm generally pretty upfront and will talk to any old herbert. I must say though, while a child, I was devastated to approach June Whitfield in Osbourne House, IoW, to be told, merrily to bugger off.
Terry and June was NEVER the same.

In 1985 I found myself on Concorde heading to New York (free courier trip) Just a few seats away from me was half a Eurythmic.

A friend of mine had been playing keyboards on live gigs with both halfs (halves?) of Eurythmics a year or so earlier. Whilst waiting to go through customs I decided to speak:- 'Scuse me but you know my friend, Steve Betts, he plays on stage with you' Blank look and a few mumbled words including 'Sorry I have never heard of him!' I feel stupid and we go our separate ways. A few hours later it hits me!!! He (Steve B.) chose a 'stage name' which was 'Howard Hughes' and obviously that is how he was known to half or possibly both halfs (halves?) of the Eurythmic!!!

(He, 'Howard Hughes', also played with the Associates during the mid 80s appearing at least once )on Top of the Pops with Billy.

I have been on a night out with Barry McGuigan and Steven Roche (the latter particularly famous in Southern Ireland) while visiting some friends who live near Dublin. Very long story but my friends new Mr Roche he new Barry etc etc. Anyway I got incredibly drunk and ended up spewing up over Mr Roches rose bushes in front of Barry M. I had spent most of the evening boring BM by reliving his boxing career. I also spilt a full pint over Steve R's wife/girlfriend. Who says the brits behave disgracefully when on the lash?

The first time I ever took a flight The Ramones were on board. I assumed this was par for the course in international air travel. And, as I was planning an international jet set life-style thought there would be plenty of future chances to carouse on planes with the stars.
Needless to say I was wrong on both counts.
At my stag do (years later) we had a photo-caption competition: captions and cameras were handed out and we then ran around Manchester taking photos to fit the caption. I got handed “A Real Manc” just as Tony Wilson came into the bar for a convivial drink in the corner. What to do??? Oh how I wish Id had the gumption to just ask for that picture – but instead I have a pasty photo of a tattooed scally with a pint of lager.
I let the cool get the better of my instincts and regretted it ever since.
Last year, staying in Amsterdam, the Kaiser Chiefs were in the hotel bar. I know it’s no a replacement, but I did go over and say “Good Band”. They seemed really pleased; I like to think that it trumps the gold discs, the groupies, the awards and the cash in the bank. When Ricky publishes his life story I will quickly thumb through the index for “Amsterdam”, “Success in Perspective” and then “Clingy Hanger On In Bar”.

I saw Mark at the bar at the RFH for The Electric Prunes, supported by a film and Pere Ubu a few years back. Jarvis Cocker was there too.

Mrs Jung and I were shopping in Windsor about 4 years ago and the other customer in the shop was a short trousered (it was summer) Jimmy Page. I was going to say that a mate had just sent me the entire Zep catalogue on CDR but thought better of it and let him go unapproached.

I used to see Nick May of The Enid handing out flyers various at every gig I attended. I think we both liked progressive rock.

I did speak to hero Dave Cousins of The Strawbs after a gig once. i thanked him for the countless hours of enjoyment. He was as embarrassed as me. Never again.

Wonderful county
Celebrity Free Zone
Never met anyone famous
Never want to
Why would you?

At a Shell garage in Bowdon, Altrincham about 15 years ago. I, bumbling young man that I was stutters out "I used to love your music". He, cool as a cucumber, was politeness personified. "Ah, by your accent I assume you are from Liverpool?", to which, to my undying shame, I offendedly blurt out "No, I'm not a Scouser, I'm from Chester...". He looked bemused, signed me a great autograph and drove away in his spangly, un-Red Wedge-esque powder blue Porsche. Me? I got in my company Astra and drove home.

I've never, EVER approached anyone since. Except Alex Ferguson having a wee, but I'm keeping my powder dry on that one for another occasion.

I was in the Crown and 2 Chinamen in Soho in 1994 or 5. There was a silly rumour about Noel Gallagher doing a solo spot upstairs. Turns out it was Beth Orton singing. I recognised Kevin Rowland and Martin from ABC. I remember thinking Kevin Rowland had a really big face. I went to gents and saw Bobby Gillespie outside the ladies surrounded by ladies as it happens. I did a double take, he looked at me and said 'alright?'. What a story eh?

I did catch up with Noel another time. It was a 3 Colours Red party for new album. There was a man pulling a woman along in an office chair on wheels just using his penis and other similar entertainment. Noel appeared with Meg. Small chap. I muttered something about liking his music - he said cheers mate or something similar.

Hob nobbing with the stars. Those were the days.

'There was a man pulling a woman along in an office chair on wheels just using his penis and other similar entertainment.'

I am confused, but please don't elaborate! :)

On a night out a few years ago with another couple I spotted Phil Oakey, my wife and her friend did not believe and after much 'oh yes it is' and 'oh no it isn't' they approached Mr Oakey and asked if it was he. His word was not good enough and my wife asked him for ID, being a sport he showed his credit card! The funny thing is my wife was still rather unbelieving and created a wholly unplausible scenario of him being an imposter.

..to approach a celeb though I have seen lots (or used to when I lived in London)

Probably the most famous ever was Paul McCartney walking down Denmark Street one afternoon but I just walked past and gave him that "I know who you are" smile.

My two favourite encounters were Ben Watt and Tracy Thorn in a tiny movie poster shop in Chelsea Antique Market, Tracy squeezed past me and my hand brushed her bum! I never washed it again. The other one was this ginger-haired bloke in a loud tartan suit at Fred's bar in Soho whose face I didn't see. He vacated his seat at the bar which I thought meant he'd left so I sat there. A few minutes later there was a tap on my shoulder and someone was saying "Excuse me, that's my seat" - I turned around and saw John Lydon looming over me. Whoops, sorry John.

The same night I saw Errol Brown coming out of the Gents. Lot smaller than I imagined.

Years ago, when I lived in Thame, I bumped into Robin Gibbin the Oxfam bookshop there. He had his two daughters with him. By gods they were tasty... (er... perhaps I missed the point on that one.)

More recently, I bumped into Tom Baker as we were both browsing through the curries in Tesco Eastbourne. Nice chap.

Amazing what you can find in the shops these days, isn't it?

... yeah, I know everyone here must be jealous, and I even said hello to the great man. He was walking towards me in a corridor and I was staring at him thinking "I know this bloke, don't know who he is, probably forgot his name, best say hello quickly or he'll think I'm being rude." Yeah I know, I watch so many blooming list programmes on telly I actually think I'm friends with the regular rent a gobs...

I also saw Terry Jones in The Prince Of Wales in Highgate once. We were at the bar next to one another waiting to get served , and i spent the whole time attempting to think of a python related pun I could crowbar into my order to the barmaid if I was served first. I failed to think of one. Say no more indeed...

Five or six years ago i, along with other parents, went to my son's junior school to see the class perform the "barn dance" routines that they had been learning. One of the routines was performed to a disco version of Tragedy by the Bee Gees.

After the thing had finished we went off home via Woolworths in Beaconsfield and was browsing the CD section when Mr.Barry Gibb and his GLW strode in,both dressed to the nines at 3-30pm looking like they were in search of a red carpet.

I tried to explain to my ten year old who he was and that he had just been line dancing to the old chaps tune and that he was a very famous singer but got nowhere fast! I did not try to make conversation and lie that "I love your work".

Was once backstage at a Steely Dan show at Wembley where a pensive looking Mick Fleetwood was in the corner being ignored whilst various members of China Crisis and the lovely looking Dan backing singers were getting all the attention!

And the exact opposite of giggling schoolgirl was when my mate threw his arms around Bruce Hornsby as he passed through the restaurant of the Jazz Cafe on the way to the dressing room...and gave him a big kiss! He was very drunk! (my mate,not Bruce)