After years of churning out deathless prose in relative obscurity, I’m not about to pass up on the opportunity of fame by association.

The news that our wonderful cartoonist, Walt Radda, was the grand prize winner of a poster contest marking the end of the excellent CTV series, Corner Gas, was a pretty exciting development for this celebrity groupie. It made me wonder if I would ever reach the giddy heights (or should that be depths?) of stardom in our fame-obsessed world. 

Up until now I have never hobnobbed with a bona fide famous person, although I once met Connie Francis (most of you are probably too young to know who she is/was) and Adam Faith (famous in Britain for several months in 1960-something). And the king of skiffle, Lonnie Donegan, who was best known for the cult classic My Old Man’s A Dustman, once slammed the door in my face when I went to his house hoping for an autograph. Not many people can make that claim.

I also once stood with hundreds of other wretchedly rain-soaked schoolchildren waving a soggy Union Jack at the Queen circa 1958, and I saw The Beatles on the tarmac of Heathrow Airport on their triumphant return from their first North American tour. They were so far away they appeared as specks, even through my binoculars, but we were in the same hemisphere at the same time.

In my early years at Westward Television in London, England, I once got sent down to our Plymouth studios to meet other working stiffs hanging around in the hopes of seeing someone who was at least slightly well known. My moment in the sun came when Herman’s Hermits appeared and played a few bars of Mrs. Brown You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter. One of them actually said hello, but he wasn’t the lead singer and didn’t really count.

Later in my checkered apology for a career, I spent a 16 hour day in the middle of winter on the film set of American Psycho, playing a member of the crowd in a funky-looking restaurant, which in reality was a frigid warehouse. The most exciting part was watching Reese Witherspoon and Christian Bale going over a two-minute dialogue for approximately three hours, although the thrill of being so close to greatness began to pall after the first 90 minutes or so.

The good news is I made the princely sum of $115 for the entire day. The bad news? My inaugural movie debut ended up on the cutting room floor. Worse, I actually paid to see the movie in a theatre, which made a big dent in my stipend and gave me a headache from watching the extreme, stylized violence unfolding on the screen.

Although I have long since recognized that my potential for stardom is pretty well non-existent, I was given one last gasp at fame during the filming of Isil Dermegiclou’s award-winning short film, The Tenant, which will be shown at Nineteen on the Park on May 27, along with Bill Keenan’s full-length comedy, Eating Buccaneers.

I was in a Toronto café during the filming of one scene, and the back of my head is clearly visible for several seconds. If you don’t believe me, come and see for yourself. And if you ask for my autograph, I guarantee I will never slam the door in your face. 

Categories: Columns, Vintage Whine
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