The wind, the wind
The wicked wind
It blows the girls’ skirts high,
but God was just
and sent the dust
To blind the poor man’s eye.
Many, many years ago, I was presented with an autograph book and, as young folk like me were wont to do in those simpler times, I went around the circle of friends I had in those days and asked them to sign it for me.
People who have long-forgotten me now, and some that I too have long forgotten have written witty and not-so-witty little snatches of poetry and prose, wishing me well and making their mark in a tiny way on the passing whimsy of my little life. There’s a long-lost “Andy” giving advice about “girls” and a half-remembered “Louise” suggesting that I might grow up to lead a lifestyle that I have failed to live up to. Those stand out amongst all those long-dead relatives, long-lost friends and some other names that are less-than-fondly remembered. There’s even a page signed by an “Andy Pandy”, but I suspect that it wasn’t the real one…
Of course, the main purpose of an autograph book is probably to seek out the signatures of the rich and famous, and in this respect I have utterly failed to succeed at helping that forlorn little book to live up to any promises made to it when it was born at the bookbinders. There are only two remotely famous people whose names are scribbled between its covers, and neither of them ever got to handle the actual book itself.
One of the signatures is that of Mr Mike Summerbee. When I was about 11 years old I had to go into the infirmary and have my tonsils out which, in those days, involved quite a long stay, and I wasn’t placed in a children’s ward, I spent my time in there on an adults’ ward. One afternoon, a nurse appeared at the foot of the bed and introduced a gentleman who I completely failed to recognise, and, after this became apparent, he bid me a friendly farewell and went off on his way, leaving a piece of paper with his name on it. This was of course Mr Summerbee, but even now, I’m not really all that sure who he was and what he had achieved.
Apparently he was some kind of a footballer once upon a long ago.
The second, with the personalised message “for Martin” is a double signature from a certain Mr Tom Baker, which I got without ever meeting the man way back in 1977. Someone at school got it for me - via his Gran I think – as he knew I was a bit of a fan, and Mr Baker was appearing at some function or other that the Gran was going to be working at one evening. That makes you think, doesn’t it? Even if you get past all the autograph hunters, you’re still likely to be pestered by the staff.
Ironically, both of their contributions are on scraps of paper, carefully cut out and pasted inside the book at some later date.
I suppose that I was never going to be the kind of person who grew up to be an autograph hunter. Any encounters I might ever have with the rich and famous are more likely to leave me squirming with self-consciousness and few of the people I grew up with have made it big in the public eye (although one or two acquaintances have been terribly successful in certain high profile fields of endeavour, they are unlikely to remember me as having played a big part in their own personal histories) so I am unlikely to ever be in a relaxed enough position to ever lose that sense of discomfort.
Once upon a long ago I was out on a sketching quest with my friend Danny in a local shopping centre whilst working my way through my foundation course, when he happened to spot Stuart Hall in amongst a crowd of shoppers. The very same Stuart Hall who presented the “It’s a Knockout” programme amongst others. Danny was all for racing over and chatting to him, and indeed duly did so, pausing only to rip a page from my sketchbook in order to ask for his autograph whilst I hid behind a nearby lamp-post.
A few years later, I was in London for the Illustrator’s show that my college put on in one of the lesser-known corners of London when one of my fellow students spotted Tony Blackburn sitting outside a pub across the road. Interestingly the largish group of us very quickly split into two distinct smaller groups; the “go over and pester the poor bloke whilst he’s trying to have a quiet pint” brigade and the “stand on the pavement staring at our shoes, pretending we weren’t with them” crowd.
Can you guess which group I was in?
Still, I suppose it’s a strange facet of being a “recognised face” that you probably need to be “recognised” every once in a while in order to feel you’re still relevant. I mean, if you are slightly well known and want a “quiet pint” then sitting outside in a white outfit, perched at the edge of the pavement on a busy London thoroughfare probably isn’t the best way to go about it, now, is it…? So you probably deserve to be pestered by some well-meaning students, and, to be honest, you probably enjoy it.
I do remember being told that I’d barged in front of that bloke who played Joey from the sitcom “Bread” in one of my local drinking haunts once upon a time, although I had to have it explained to me afterwards about what I’d done and, even then, I still didn’t recognise the poor fellow.
Nowadays I’m less likely to recognise anyone “famous” anyway as I shun the so-called “celebrity” TV shows, rarely see the magazines that those sort of folk tend to feature in, and never see any of the soaps. I quite often wonder if I’m meant to recognise any of the faces popping up in the adverts from other things, but I’m prepared to accept that I’m just kind of out of that particular loop and wander my way through life with as little knowledge of these things as that judge who had to be told “it’s the name of a popular musical ensemble” when someone mentioned “The Rolling Stones” in a court case.
Allegedly.
I do quite enjoy book signings though. One of these is where I finally did meet the real Mr. Baker in person, and an evening watching Douglas Adams promoting “Last Chance to see…” remains a fond memory, despite some of the embarrassing spectacles made of themselves by one or two of his biggest fans. It was when we were leaving an Alexei Sayle book signing that my nearest miss with making my own celebrity spectacle of myself happened, when I spotted Gina McKee waiting for a taxi. I, quite reasonably I maintain, thought that I recognised her from a party in Levenshulme and, deciding that she was an old friend from those days, I waved and started to walk towards her as if to talk to her. I was convinced that the (probably nervous) smile that she had sent my way was one of recognition. Luckily I was dragged away by the beloved who, not for the first time, recognised the pity in the gaze of a complete stranger, and rescued me from making a proper fool of myself. She pointed out, quite rightly, that I had recognised Ms McKee from the telly and that it was most unlikely that I’d ever spoken to her whilst out of my mind on cheap red wine in a house on the outskirts of Manchester.
Unlikely, but not impossible.
Tragically, my lack of recognition of the high and mighty still continues to this day. Recently I went to a poetry reading by Seamus Heaney without being really sure who he actually was. By the time I had taken my (hotly sought after by those in the know) seat, in my mind I fully expected Samuel Beckett to walk out, because that was the picture that I had in my mind attached to the name, which would have come as both a surprise and have been something of a miracle, but such is my ignorance of contemporary Irish poets.
The little poem at the top was scribbled by one of the three Fionas I’ve ever been acquainted with, none of whom (as far as I am aware) are that well-known, and only one of whom signed my little autograph book.
I was reminded of it over last weekend when the winds were howling past the house with such a roar that I couldn’t sleep. Of course, I had meant to try to entertain you with tales of my experiences of windy weather, and other exciting things of that nature, but I seem to have got sidetracked.
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