Stalking Celebrities with Taylor Swift

We all have a strange obsession with fame. The glitzy, glamourous, glittering bubble that surrounds the rich and famous is one that although we may not necessarily want to envelop ourselves in, we all long to be around at some point in our lives. Indeed, we, as a species, seem to revel in regaling stories of the brief moments in which we have been touched by the stars (figuratively of course; we don't need any more court cases going on right now!), and after being asked on a number of occasions over the last week by curious students whether or not I have ever met anyone famous, I have come to realise two things;

1) The fascination with stardom is a global phenomena. No matter the country, there is always a buzz in a conversation, a moment of fleeting impressment (that's a real word by the way! I'm filled with a feeling of impressment right now upon discovering that!) when someone in the room regales you of their all-too-brief brush with a B-lister.

And

2) I've had far too many all-too-brief brushes with B-listers.

Having met someone more interesting than yourself suddenly elevates (albeit momentarily) other people's interest in you, giving you a sudden semi-stardom, which inevitably fizzles out when someone else in the room remembers that they once snogged Jonny Depp's third cousin twice removed.

Over the last few years I've had a few rather memorable encounters with minor celebs (most of whom are barely famous outside of London, let alone the UK), including being told I have beautiful hair by Jewish comedian Simon Amstell, having a lunch with Sir Kenneth Brannagh, being advised by the legendary Matt Berry where to buy his stand-up DVD for the lowest price, running head-first into a very grumpy Martin Clunes, sharing a pint and a fag with Alan Davies, cooking for both Welsh rugby coach Warren Gatland and John Barrowman and his Barrow-mum, and maybe my favourite, watching Rhys Ifans being drunkenly thrown out of a pub.

There have been many more random encounters besides, but do they make me more of an interesting person? Well no, of course not. They just give me a vaguely interesting story to tell and a nice piece of noslgia to look back on.

The reason for this ramble? A few days ago whilst doing some cover work in Leicester Square, I happened to witness the setting up of the red carpet for the new George Clooney film (vaguely interesting/nice piece of nostalgia). After finishing work for the day, I decided to ask one of the security guards at what time things would be kicking off. With the wry smile of a haggard Scotsman, he informed me that the cast would be arriving around six thirty and, with a glance down at my laptop bag, informed me that they would be "ready for my lot".

It wasn't until moments after I had thanked the burly chap and was already halfway across the square that it dawned on me that he had mistaken my satchel for a camera bag, and had thus confused me for one of the bevy of paparazzi frantically securing their locations around the area. 

Watching these tired, somewhat desperate photographers I realised just how determined some people are to have their lives touched by the famous. Without the public's need for a glance into glitz, these gentlemen wouldn't be here. Indeed the carpet itself wouldn't be here in the first place.

So perhaps it's a good thing? Celebrity keeps photographers in work, gives us wannabe writers something to waffle on about, and gives Joe Everyman a little excitement in his day-to-day life. Me though? I'm not all that fussed. The stories are nice to share, but at the end of the day, celebs are nothing more than (hopefully) talented people who have struck it lucky in life. So smile if one passes you on the street. Maybe tell them you're a fan; you might get a trendy new profile pic, or even manage to share a drink or two with someone you admire. But the obsession? The endless magazines? You can keep them. That said, if there's a position going as Taylor Swift's official stalker, I'll be snapping away with the best of them!