I was informed the other day that Charlie Brooker was in my actual office in my actual work canteen, so now all my waking hours are spent sobbing over this missed opportunity. Although, missed opportunity to do what? Politely tell him I admire his work? Remain rooted to the spot, catatonic with fear, staring fiercely at him as he walks by? Or completely lose my shit and rugby-tackle him to ground, alternately screaming with laughter in his face and smashing my head into his chest? Or what I probably would have done, which was run outside and furiously chain-smoke whilst casting furtive glances through the window, concocting scenarios in my head where he recognised my keen journalistic talent through sight alone and immediately offered me a co-producer role on Screenwipe? I don't know now, and seeing as there are only a few plausible reasons he would be in my office anyway, I don't think I ever will. Hey, and indeed, ho.
I have trouble with celebrity worship. On one hand, I'm a bloody cool dude who works on the very outskirts of London's Trendy Media Scene, and I've had a darn sight better calibre of celebrity sniffing around my work canteen parts than good ole' Mr Brooker. Why, only the other week one of my colleagues hollered "Course, you don't do the reporting, you only get to do the walking around!" at Jeremy Vine (which I loved, incidentally. It was as if he had had a whole conversation with Jeremy in his head just before that, and had only started vocalising in the middle of it, like some kind of madman. Which he isn't, of course, he's a very nice and sane man. Hi, Stew!) So I should be a stone-cold hardman when it comes to the world of slebs. But on the other hand, I still get inordinately excited when I see the damn fool famous types. I was sorely gutted the other week to not be able to attend a gathering which was attended by not only That Bloke Off The Barclays Adverts, but also The Middle One In That Cider Advert That Goes Ahhhhhhh For A Long Time. They were at the same uni as me as well, which gives an extra level of resonance. Actually, I still harbour deep pools of guilty pleasure (if indeed one can harbour a pool - meh, it's my blog, I can harbour whatever I damn well want) at the fact that most of the numbskulls I knew at college who seemed to be undeservedly destined for stardom have, so far, not achieved anything that I know of, apart from one bloke who was actually very nice and not a numbskull who recently popped up on a series of those little 3 minute slots after the Channel 4 news. I don't begrudge him that, they were quite funny. As you may have already gathered, I am a bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter individual.
On that massively inconclusive note, I should away for some shuteye, if I can get any. Yesterday, I watched the Derren Brown programme where he made someone think they were witnessing their own death in a car crash, and last night I was plagued with nightmares about my mother being dead, complete with deliciously harrowing images in close-up of her pallid corpse. So thanks for that, Derren. Not fucked with enough minds this year already? Damn your well-trimmed pixie beard.