The lesson that fame is subjective is a painful one to learn. I’d spent my entire life chasing its elusive blessing like a sunburned tramp pursuing a butterfly made of booze, only to discover that if you pop across the English Channel to Calais, British fame is as much use as British currency. “Monsieur, I should very much like to take your daughter upstairs. And I’ll have that camembert an’ all.” “Alors!! You stinking English scum, my daughter will go nowhere with you – I ’ave never seen you before and your haircut is, ’ow you say … ridiculous.” “Do you not watch Big Brother’s Big Mouth? No? May I still have the cheese? I’m prepared to pay …” Yes, anonymity was hard enough to endure the first time, but to have it revoked by foreign travel, why, it’s worse than a driving ban – it’s like losing your blowjob licence. Plus I’d organised my entire personality around fame, not to mention my physical appearance – my haircut for heaven’s sake!
