Recent events have led me to reflect on all the things I’ve achieved in life, especially as I approach the top of the hill.
Being a best man recently, reintroduced me to friends I made twenty seven years ago; meanwhile, I bumped into my geography teacher from the same time and my cousin prepares to renew her vows for a silver anniversary.
It all got me thinking.
I have fallen in love with ‘Wonder’ by R. J. Palacio – the book has pretty much changed my life – and was teaching recently about Mr. Browne’s precepts and I discussed with a class, the many things I’m proud of. Family, friends, teaching… the three degrees, the flexibility and versatility and designing several singles and a top ten album and having the artwork in the museum for five years… being a mentor, a role model, a best man, a brother and son and father and husband.
As an aside, I’m not showing off; just trying to be truthful, and to justify what’s to come…
It got me thinking about a small, separate part of my life which has actually come to offer several seminal moments which I feel very lucky to have experienced and still can’t quite believe some of which have actually taken place.
I’m talking about meeting my heroes.
There’s always been a fine line between acknowledging being close to greatness and being a celebrity groupie / stalker / any other term of negativity and in today’s society, that line is finer than ever. Online accessibility, mobile phone use and general popular culture trends mean that Andrew Warhola’s assertion that ‘everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes’ has come true and even the artist’s own correction to that quote – ‘everyone will be famous in fifteen minutes’ – have come true.
I’ve always been interested in being close to famous people… I think most people are. I still have my autograph books from childhood, when we waited at the stage door of one of the piers in Blackpool for Lenny Henry and Tracey Ullman and then met Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards whose signature I cherished. I’d make my dad set off three hours early for my first few matches, to meet the players on their way in and if possible get a photo with to document the moment. Like Ricky Fitts in ‘American Beauty’, I just had to remember the moment.
I always needed to remember.
Time went on and I entered the world of adulthood, suddenly mixing in circles that muddied the waters of celebrity and blurred the lines between ‘them’ and ‘me’. Autographs gave way to selfies or tweets, whilst experiences replaced the signatures, such as drinking with Hollyoaks actors, having Antony H Wilson’s mobile number in my phone until the day he died, donating artworks to Turner Prize winning artists and then working closely with a band I would regularly see on TV or at signings or have pupils fawning over.
Meeting slebs didn’t lose its impact, I just became more comfortable with it, and was happy to tell celebrity chefs what my kids thought of them or asking a royal to send me some of her carrots because I came to realise they are just normal people who happen to be famous and there, but for the grace of God, could have gone I, who went on to do something arguably more important and difficult and therefore, me meeting them is – maybe – just as memorable for them.
It’s a crazy notion, but keeps me going.
I like to think I made an impression on some of them at least, and hope, if you’re reading this, you remember meeting me as fondly as I do you.
In no particular order, here’s a few highlights of my celebrity-meeting career with a nod to Billy Joel and the MerseyBeat poets:
Pat Nevin as a kid, local radio DJs, Beckham (Geri’s number?) and David Morrissey.
Leighton Baines in Waitrose, speaking French to Cantona, talking girls with Ifans, and Robert Carlyle.
Touching Tarantino, telling Liam Gallagher he’s cool, Mani loving my hat, Shearer dropping my pen
Offering Dunc my GCSE artwork, cookbooks off Aiden Byrne, Pierre Koffmann, Paul Askew, League of gentlemen…
Alonso – hate and love you – Millwall with Danny Baker, Carra in the café, Gazza with the shakes
Tony Cottee, Steve Wright, Johan Cruyff on my flight, van Nistelrooy, Jade Goody and Seamie Coleman…
Howard Kendall signing cheques, Graeme Sharp the FA Cup, a very moody Mignolet… who else do I have to say?
Grayson Perry owns my pot, Tracey Emin has the lot, Richard Ashcroft in the Cotswolds and Jackson (of the snakes)
Reid, Kanchelskis, Southall, Van den Hauwe – all with the kids, plenty more to come… that’s what happens now
Peter Blake, Jamie Oliver, Camilla with the carrots, Dec agreeing I look like Darius… Vic Reeves p**s artist
James Dean Bradfield, Max and Bombhead, Clyne and Parkinson in the school, then there was Steve Cram
Richard Hawley Parr Street, Tony Wilson dj’ing, Wombats in the flat and school, and Holly Valance.
There will be many more who have disappeared in the haze of a drunken – or starstruck – hour, too. All pivotal and incredibly important to me at the time… well, some more than others.
Especially the footballers. Even the most eminently forgettable Everton player will have etched himself in my memory if he stopped to sign autograph for me or, God forbid, I bumped into him somewhere. However, the top three ever were probably Cruyff at the airport, Cantona and Ferguson in terms of sporting stars; meanwhile Gallagher, Ashcroft and Hawley in music.
However, none of the above – well, maybe a couple of exceptions (Cruyff and Ferguson) – had had the effect on me and my life that Liam Fray has had, though, and meeting him two weeks ago was particularly incredible.
Some people scratch their heads… others question, “and what?” but to me – who has some of his lyrics tattooed on my chest because my entire wedding speech was based on one of his songs – it was up there with some of the greatest moments of my life.
Not the higher echelons, like my kids being born or my wedding day, but the next level, because this guy – and his words – mean so much to me. I’ve seen him sing live ten times or more.
I’ve bought the merchandise, watched on YouTube countless times and danced around like a d’head but not cared because I was having the time of my life accompanied by his dulcet tones. I’ve spent hundreds of pounds on his oeuvre, his t-shirts, his gigs, having the time of my life… and I’ve admired his dress sense, liked his Instagram posts, and his words… Man, his words.
This was a week before we crossed paths.
The underdogs, the bridesmaids, getting noticed by the masses at last. even my mum was watching, and texted me about it:
Let’s just say, he is a bit of a hero of mine.
Morrissey didn’t get the honour of a mention in my speech, or a tattoo (yet) and, given his particular aloofness and distance, Liam is probably – arguably – numero one in my list of the possible people currently alive to meet.
You can guess, by now, what happened when we were out to celebrate our sixth year anniversary.
Sat by a widow, we were discussing the restaurant décor and potential colours for the front of our house (currently being rendered) when a familiar face walked past outside.
With the manager of the Courteeners.
I’m such a fan.
“F***ing h***, that’s Liam Fray!” I exclaimed and didn’t run – I kept some dignity – but briskly walked outside to greet the great man.
At this point, I admit, it all went a little Jed Maxwell.
I don’t mind admitting it, because it was a dream come true to have a conversation with this guy whose words I’ve listened to a thousand times.
He and his manager were a little taken aback when I lifted my shirt to reveal said tattoo but he liked it, and swore me to secrecy about why he was in town. We discussed meeting Morrissey, my missing the gig the previous weekend, and took selfies before explaining my wedding speech in detail. I do wonder what he thought of this oddball, six years his senior, who made the most of a once in a lifetime opportunity, and just hope he realises how much he has affected mine for the better, with his words of wisdom and kindness when our paths crossed fleetingly for a couple of moments.
People walked past and they clearly didn’t recognise this genius before them – him, not me – but some people looked and wondered, hence my distracted face in the profile pics in which he returned to being the epitome of cool. He wandered off into the city, I returned to the last of the ladies, the belle of the ball, and I entered a dreamlike state for a few minutes full of teary eyes as I wondered if it was all just a dream, dreamt by another.
It wasn’t.
It was definitely real.
Always meet your heroes.