Many years ago, as a teenager, I was lucky enough to meet the legendary West Indian cricketer Gordon Greenidge. Mr Greenidge MBE, the scorer of 7,558 Test runs, was absolutely lovely to this stuttering, nervous child. He signed my thigh guard, gave me some splendid advice on how to bat better, and wished me all the best for the future.
This week, I was lucky enough to be at a swanky lunch, where I found myself introduced to Greenidge once more. What a fantastic opportunity! Now, as an adult, I could ask all those interesting questions that I hadn’t felt bold enough to ask as a child. Was he ever scared of a bowler? Did he really feign injuries when he was at the top of his game? Who was the best cricketer he ever played against? Think Parky meeting Mohammad Ali, but with more subtle, teasing questions, and more mutual respect.
“Hello,” said Mr Greenidge.
“You…you signed my thigh guard!.”
“I was 16, and you signed it, and ever since that day I was much better at batting!”
“I’m not sure that could have made you better.”
“Well, thank you anyway Mr Greenidge. You must excuse me.”
What is WRONG with me? Mind you, I have some inkling that the aforementioned Parky-style interview wouldn’t have been much fun for Mr Greenidge either. I’m a cricket tragic and have managed to wrangle my way into all sorts of events attended by former professionals. I’ve realised that if there’s one thing they don’t want to talk about – and you do – it’s cricket.
“Who’s the fastest bowler you’ve faced?” “What’s your favourite ground?” “How do you make it reverse swing?” It might be fascinating for you, but for them, it’s essentially like being asked the same 10 questions about Sharon from accounts and what’s in the office vending machine, over and over again.
So respect must go to the man I saw later on at the event who was sitting next to Henry Olonga, the former Zimbabwe bowler. Rather than talking about his brave black armband protest against Robert Mugabe at the World Cup, or even Olonga’s opera singing career (which all of us cricket tragics know about in quite some detail), he instead got into a passionate debate over who had the best mobile phone tariff.
Anyway, this has set me thinking about celebrities, and the British reaction to them. Of course, as a nation we have no respect whatsoever for The Famouses, do we? If we’re not ruthlessly mocking them in the pub, we’re probably sending them abusive tweets or laughing at pictures of their cellulite in Closer. Except, I’m not sure that’s the whole story at all. I consider myself a mature, urbane adult, who is self-confident enough never to be intimidated by someone simply because they’ve been tapped by the arbitrary Sword of Celebrity. And yet, here are some of the things nerves made me do back when I used to work as a TV researcher:
– Offer David Mitchell a cup of tea, even though I’d actually progressed slightly beyond the tea-making role and there were eight other people in the room whom I’d completely ignored. Having had my offer correctly rebuffed, I then turned to the room and said, “Oh, and would anyone else like one?” which of course made it a lot worse.
– Looked after the actor James Grout from Inspector Morse in a hotel bar before an interview, which I did by sitting him down with a cup of coffee, ordering myself a double whiskey and coke even though it was 11am (even now, I really have no idea why I did this), then launching into a 20-minute monologue which started with the fact I’d gone to Brighton for the weekend, segued into my thoughts on theatre in the UK and somehow journeyed via the South Downs to a discussion of the epitaph on Virginia Woolf’s gravestone. At no point did he do anything other than politely nod his head.
– Attempted to compliment Ari Up of The Slits by telling her my Dad was a huge fan (which he wasn’t).
– Ranted – pretty much to the point of shouting – at Andy Parsons (whom I’d never met before) about the fact that the Happy Eater on the A303 has really bad customer service even though if I’m absolutely honest the restaurant I’m thinking of might be a Little Chef and I’m not even sure it is on the A303.
And these are just a few examples – honestly, there are a great many more – from my professional career. What about chance encounters? What about staring pointedly into Rob Brydon’s eyes in a cinema queue before tutting, shaking my head and scowling at him, because I thought I’d recognised him as a mate from work, realised he wasn’t and felt a bit disappointed, then realised who he was and that I’d been staring straight at him, and for some reason my instinctive response to the situation was to show my disapproval of his very existence?
And let’s not pretend I’m alone in this. What about my significant other in Boots, frantically jabbing her friend and saying “Look! Look! It’s Stephen Fry!” over and over again, so loudly that Stephen Fry was obliged to turn around and wave at them both, right there in the middle of the shop? I just don’t think she’s the first person to have done this sort of thing.
Part of the problem, of course, is the ridiculous emphasis and semi deification of celebrities – and with all due respect, some of the above names are hardly ‘A’ List – by the television industry. Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe has explained this ridiculous treatment of the “Talent” far better than I ever could. As a junior researcher, which I was when most of the above took place, you are taught that these people are GODS, rather than people, and so it’s no wonder you treat them as such.
But I think there’s rather more to it. I think it comes down to being English. It’s a subject which has been touched upon by Kate Fox in her classic work of social anthropology, Watching the English, from 2004. As she explains, the people of this island race have a bit of a problem with, well, other people. The “core” of Englishness, she argues, is “a cogenital disorder, bordering on a sort of sub-clinical combination of autism and agoraphobia.. It is our lack of ease, discomfort and incompetence in the field of social interaction; our embarrassment, insularity, awkwardness, perverse obliqueness, emotional constipation, fear of intimacy and general inability to engage in a normal and straightforward fashion with other human beings.”
This discomfort, she says, lead to our tendency to become “over-polite, buttoned up and awkwardly restrained or loud, loutish, crude, violent and generally obnoxious.” For her, a stiff upper lip and hooliganism are sides of the same coin. No doubt, this is the problem with which we’re dealing, amplified a hundred times by the social pressure that fame generates for the person in its presence. There’s only one thing for it. I’m going to have to become a sleb myself. The Apprentice, here I come. All I have to do is interact with my fellow humans for a few weeks without breaking down in tears, mortally offending them or punching one of them in the balls so hard we both scream. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’m English, Goddammit.