One cold, sinister night in the autumn of 2002, two dark figures were exchanging words in the middle of Penkhull Cemetery. They were none other than my Dad and the father of Freddie Fisher, of recent Big Brother fame. To this day my Dad won’t tell the family exactly what he was doing in the cemetery with Mr. Fisher; what I do know is that at the time he was involved in some dodgy underground dealings (he worked in the pottery industry), and I had heard the name ‘Operation Hotdish’ whispered in some of the secret phone conversations Dad had to conduct outside of the house. We had been told that if Hotdish was a success, dad would be getting a big promotion and we would all live happily ever after, forever. The Operation was a failure however, probably something to do with the fact that meetings were held in a cemetery in the dark at night. I can only assume that to finalise a deal in the pottery industry there needs to be some sort of necromantic ritual in order to appease the God of Death (and pots?) or something, which would explain all the secrecy. So while this may not be a dazzling tale about meeting Des Lineham in Reflex or anything like that, there probably aren’t that many stories in the world that involve a whole operation consisting of dads, Fred die off Big Brother, the undead, and pottery.
Tom Shingler
About three years ago my dad was working at The All*Star Cup, a celebrity golf tournament for Sky Sports. I’m not sure if you remember, it was a celebrity golf competition, which pitted a British group of celebs against an American team Ryder-cup style. I decided to tag along as there were some big names signed up to play; Catherine Zeta Jones, Michael Douglas, Ronan Keating to name a few. It was quite a good laugh; I took a friend and we watched a few holes and my dad blagged us tickets for the after show party in a nearby hotel.
The party was good; being 17 we spent most of our time trying to sneak free alcoholic drinks without waiters noticing. But afterwards in the lift down to the lobby, I had one of those really embarrassing star-struck experiences: Robbie Williams walked into the lift. I remember I shard a completely amazed look with my friend, and plucked up the courage to ask him to sign one of the hundreds of free golf balls we’d pocketed throughout the day. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe an awkward but polite exchange about the tournament while we waited for the lift to reach the lobby. But what actually happened was Robbie turned to me, with a disgusted luck on his face and spat ‘mate, do you know how hard it is to sign a golf ball?!’. The few minutes that followed where some of the most uncomfortable in my life.
Chris Fry
I spent a few weeks this summer waitressing at the Mayfair Hotel, a thoroughfare for corporate types, high-brow journalists and low budget celebrities alike. The Hotel regularly makes the celebrity section of the London Lite, such is the nature of its famous clientele. Working in this environment gave me a direct insight into the parasitic side of Celebrity, an industry as rich in perks as it is low in morals. The freebie culture was noticeable by the incongruous presence of certain well-known faces at functions they clearly had only a passing relation to. Ex-Eastenders stars, blonde bombshell Michelle Collins and the sickly looking sap who played Mark Fowler, attended the screening of the cautionary environmental docu-flick, “The Disappearance of Bees”. Michelle Collins only turned up after the screening had ended, her arrival neatly coinciding with the popping of champagne corks. One of my managers, rushing back from the bank at the end of her lunch break, happened upon a barely dressed Lady Gaga using the staff exit to avoid the paparazzi. While, my ears were assaulted by the less than dulcet tones of ex-Sugababe, Mutya Buena as I manned the cloak room. Peaches Geldof, who epitomises the celebritocracy culture, lived at the Hotel for six months free of charge and was despised by all the staff for her difficult demanding behaviour.
Kate O’Loughlin
“disguised luck on his face”
I assume you meant disgusted look. You have a proof reading problem…