Insanely flirty, funny and irreverent. I was surprised.

Stood behind her when she paid for her petrol. Hadn't even noticed her til the bloke at the checkout asked for her autograph. She's not very big.

Things I've seen...

In 1980, Puffin Books (the children's imprint of Penguin) held one of their Expos at the Commonwealth Institute in London. These Expos were a highlight of my year: opportunities to meet my favourite children's authors, get their autographs, win prizes, and join in the fun. And as a member of the Puffin Book Club, I got free entry too.

Many years later, the adult me met Albert Uderzo, the co-creator of Asterix, at one of these Puffin Club exhibitions, and shook his hand. It was one of the happiest days of my life. But that's another story.

Anyway. 1980 saw a bumper crop of authors, including John Ryan (Pugwash, lovely), and Roald Dahl. Not lovely. I'm sure it'll be no surprise to anybody when I tell you he was one of the gnarliest, grumpiest gits this 10 year-old had ever met. So, no, that was hardly surprising.

Who *was* surprising, in light of how he may be perceived nowadays, and certainly back then, was the satirist and columnist Alan Coren. Father of Victoria and Giles, mainstay of 1970s-1980s teatime quiz shows, all-round Middle-England hero. And who once popped up for an interview in Word Magazine, shortly before his death.

Coren, circa 1980, had written a popular series of books for children about a young hero called Arthur, very popular at my school. I gravitated toward Coren, who sat quite alone at his signing desk, near the back door, beside a shelf containing his latest Arthur novel: 'Arthur and the Great Detective', in which the eponymous boy detective teams up with Sherlock Holmes (and Gilbert and Sullivan) for an adventure aboard a Victorian steam liner.

I gazed longingly at the shelf, for I could ill-afford the 80 pence cover charge, and my parents weren't around to help me out. Coren stirred; a sleepy cat waking up. "Hello, Hello!" he said, in that familiar sing-sing voice. "Would you like a book?" I shook my head sadly. "I can't afford it" I said. "But everyone in my class loves them."

Coren thought for a bit. "Tell you what" he said, leaning forward conspiratorily. "Here's the plan. Take one down from the shelf, yes, that's right, and bring it here. Yes, yes." And he signed it for me. I know this, because I'm looking at his autograph on the inside cover, right now.

"Now" he said. "What you do is this. Face me, that's right, and I want you to slip the book inside your coat. Do it in one smooth movement. And then walk straight out through the door. Don't look back."

And so I did.

Alan Coren: master-criminal and mensch. I salute you.

Didn't Uderzo finally retire a few weeks back? Not that it matters too much - the books were never as funny after Goscinny died.

Edit - replied to the OP instead of Stick. Sorry about that.

My arl fella, bless him, has opened a sports shop (Dacre Sports. Don't look for it - it's not there any more.) He has been invited to a trade fair in That London, at which many sports stars of the day would be appearing to promote Stylo Matchmakers, white Hummel boots and so on and so forth.

After much mithering, I was allowed to accompany him.

So when we got there, the arl fella went off to do business-y type stuff, and I wandered the stands, programme and paper in hand, trying to catch the eye of the sporting heroes of the day. Most were ok if a little brusque, but happy enough to scrawl an illegible heiroglyph on my programme. Virtually none wished to share the time of day with a scrawny little mite like me. I'm looking at you, Gordon Banks, Martin Chivers, Ted MacDougall...

Until I stood by one stand where a particular sportsman caught my eye and waved me over. He asked me my name, how I was enjoying myself and what I'd been up to, who I'd met etc. He was, by some distance, the nicest, most approachable individual I'd come into contact with all day.

He looked at my programme and asked me if I'd like him to sign it.

I nodded and passed it to him. He wrote;

"Best wishes to Paul. Geoff Boycott."

...outside the school assembly hall, waiting for guest speaker Geoff Capes, of Shotput, Strongest Man and budgie fame. This would have been about 1983, and I was a callow, puny 13.

Mr Capes approaches the hall from a door at the end of the line and walks past all 200 or so of us in the queue.

He stops at me, no-one else. He's enormous. In my mind, he butts me with his stomach, but did that really happen?

"Gotta fag?", he enquires.

was spotting Walter Koenig (Chekov from Star Trek) stood next to me on the London Underground, Piccadilly Line. It was around late 1986, and in hindsight, he was obviously in the UK to promote Star Trek VI: The Voyage Home.

My Trekkie mate's jaw hit the deck: Noticing this, Koenig grinned at us, made the Vulcan 'Live long and prosper' hand gesture and whispered, "Yes, I am the navigator!"

Had very odd hair though.

In the crush at the bar, I bump rather heavily into the back of a chap at the bar, spilling some of the two pints he's carrying. I apologise and immediately offer to purchase replacements.

"Nae a problem, dinnae fash.." he says, turning round.

Graeme fucking Souness.

I started hitch-hiking when I was 12 (I was already 6'4") in the 70s. When you're a teenager living in the country, you've got to get about somehow. Apart from the practicality of getting somewhere, I loved it for the way you could strike up conversation with a complete stranger and feel richer for it.

One lift I got, after a particularly good chinwag, the driver apologised for the fact that he couldn't take me into town and dropped me in the neighbouring village as he had a meeting 'in that house'. Now, I know nothing of football, but every local schoolboy knew that was Bobby Charlton's house.

'Wow, how do you know him?'
'Er, I used to play football with him'
Silence
'For which team?'
'Er. England'

Had I been football crazy, I would of course have recognised him, clammed up and never had any conversation. It was Nobby Stiles.

who is half blind and plays the guitar once played in a band at a corporate function thing on Hamilton Island, a popular tourist place in Queensland. George Harrison, who had property up there, was at this do, and the bandleader decided to introduce my mate, who we will call Roger, to George.

"Roger, this is George, George meet Roger".

Now Roger is a friendly sort of chap so he chatted away, "what do you do George?"

(Slow Liverpool accent) "Play the guitar"

(Excited) "Really, so do I. Are you in a band?"

"I used to be in a band but they broke up"

"Oh sorry to hear that, what was the name of the band?"

"The Beatles".

(Much spluttering and peering through thick lenses) "GEORGE! GEORGE HARRISON!!"

Much mirth from those around. This is apparently a true story.

It's around midnight and me and some mates are queueing up outside the art school alongside all the other pilled up loons. Excited ripples are heard at the back. "Wow is it you? Gawn yersell; big man! HELLO! HELLO!"

Who is causing this excitement? Is it Andy Weatherall? Has a member of the Jengaheads appeared? Perhaps Derrick May is in town?

It turned out to be first minister Donald Dewer out for a walk.

I remember that this made me really happy.

stood next to Sir Trevor McDonald in a hotel toilet once.

And no, I didn't have a peep.