Friday – to the offices of North One TV in Islington, to meet a couple of producers. It’s a bona fide company: they’ve made all manner of jolly programmes in the entertainment and factual sphere of things. It wasn’t, I was relieved to have confirmed, some single dingy office on the third floor where I was quickly asked to take my clothes off ‘for the role’.
They’d spotted me on the Yentob programme last December, and wanted to talk about the possibility of me either presenting or contributing to future TV projects. The meeting goes okay: notes are taken. I think I did okay, but how can you tell? No one died.
At present, I don’t have any single burning vocational projects in mind to foist upon the viewing public, but I do have lots of little suggestions, so I make those. My slant on culture in general, Modern Englishness, how to be young – or not care about not being young, how to be happy, the importance of avoiding the crowd, outsider writers, cult British films, underground authors; essentially, a TV extension of this diary. I go away promising to keep them posted as to further ideas. One thing I do want to do is practice my public speaking technique, and speaking to camera. I was thinking of investing in some easy-to-use digital affair – a webcam, perhaps. But it would probably be better if I recorded with someone else at the camera. Maybe I could do a bit of both. Put up a few examples on YouTube, which this week has just gone legit with the BBC.
I’ve found that although I’m often nervous and prone to gabbling and stammering with people, with cameras I actually tend to become more still and composed. And indeed, posed without the ‘com’. Ask anyone who’s taken my photo.
I think this may be because with people, I’m always thinking they might be about to hit me. Camera operators can still hit you – not least with the camera itself. But there’s more chance of being able to get a head start in running away.
In the evening I phone The Ivy and book a table, even though the reservation line is closed.
Well, yes, it’s not my name that does it, but Mr MacG’s, who’s invited me out. He’d been to see Equus – the one with Harry Potter, naturally – and had stormed out halfway through, because his seat was one of those actually on the stage, and apparently you’re not allowed to have drinks there. If, as I understand it, the bulk of the auditorium can see this section of the audience in the darkened background, I rather think Mr MacGowan would have upstaged the proceedings regardless. As it was, he told the staff “I’m not ready for another Nazi Germany… yet.” and left.
It’s the “…yet” that makes the quote funnier.
So I join him and Ms Clarke at the Ivy afterwards, and have one of the best meals I’ve had for some time. Wine, fish, more fish, more wine. Dessert is frozen Scandinavian berries in a hot white chocolate sauce. Absolute heaven. I take a look around, but it seems we’re the most famous people here tonight, disappointingly enough. “Probably all at Ms Hurley’s wedding”, says my mother, when I phone her later.
So what IS the celebrity-favoured Ivy restaurant like? Well, once you get pass the top-hatted man on the door and get downstairs, the food is fantastic, and the staff are friendly and well-dressed (as opposed to just smartly dressed), and it actually doesn’t feel terribly exclusive or snooty, just a really nice place to go for a meal. That happens to be hard to get a table for. Most of the clientele tonight are just fairly ordinary-looking people with money.
On the way out, I’m struck by the flash bulbs of a couple of paparazzi photographers, who must be having a quieter night than usual. Their flashes are a thousand times whiter and brighter than your average camera. They really want to get some shots of Shane, of course, which if used will doubtlessly be captioned with the word ‘hellraiser’.
We repair, as ever, to the barstools of the packed Boogaloo. At chucking-out time, a bevy of young people whip out their camera phones and actually queue up to get their photos taken with Shane MacGowan. I’m used to seeing this happen once or twice, but not an actual queue. And I wonder how many of them are actual fans, and how many are just keen to photograph themselves next to a celebrity per se, whether it’s Sue Pollard or Robert De Niro. All famous people are the same to some: tourist attractions. Still, he doesn’t seem to mind. At least, not tonight.
A fair amount of such photos must feature the drunk young person in question grinning happily, next to Shane MacGowan grinning graciously, next to me glowering in supremely haughty irritation. The irritation, it shames me to admit, is probably less because my friend is being bothered by strangers, and more because I really want them to photograph… me.
By this point, I’m pretty drunk myself. And when this queue of Shane-snappers continues and I mutter “not another one”, I clearly do it too loudly. Because one tipsy young woman bleats defensively to me, “But I don’t want to take a photo, I just want to talk to him. That’s better, isn’t it? That’s better.”
