Red's mention of spotting my future husband Adrian Brody in a Roman café has brought back memories of the time I met a bona-fide Irish celebrity (albeit a not very well known one) at a party. It's typical of most of my stories in that I make a prick of myself and everyone laughs, but I don't have many celebrity stories so it will have to do.
Miss M and I had been drinking of an evening with her elder brother and as ever were reluctant to go home before we absolutely had to, so he offered to bring us along to a party. It was a crazy shirt party (should that be krazy with a K?) being hosted by some of his crazy middle-aged friends (though now that I'm 26 I realise that they were probably in their early thirties at most). We were already crazy drunk by the time we arrived. Noticeably so. Covered in scratches from a tumble into some bushes en route we barrelled in full of beans and made with the merrymaking. The next couple of hours are a bit of a blur (I do know I spent much of the night in the garden, smoking) but another brother of Miss M's arrived in the wee small hours, straight from shift, and upon seeing the state we were in decided he'd drive us home before settling in to a beer himself. Miss M, it transpired, had neither budged from her perch on the couch nor removed her coat. She'd methodically eaten her way through all the chips and was eating what was left of the dips with her fingers, a happy, sticky mess. I was eventually lured in from the garden by the promise of a lift home and steered towards the front door, Miss M trailing along behind me. I opened the door, and there he was.
Jack Lukeman AKA Jack L, the finest thing to come out of Athy, well, ever.
I'll admit I'm a fan. I saw him there, inches from my face, and distinctly remember thinking play it cool. "Oh FUCK!" I screamed "IT'S JACK L!"
Smooth as.
He politely stepped aside to let me past, but of course I stood there grinning like a loon, rooted to the spot. Eventually he had to squeeze through the doorway to get past me, so I promptly turned on my heel and followed him back in, leaving my chauffeur in the car looking pissed off and Miss M still trailing along behind me. Realising I hadn't been as nonchalant in the face of celebrity as I'd like I tried to redeem myself by ignoring him and talking instead to/at his friend, only to overhear Miss M shouting SHE'S YOUR BIGGEST FAN at him and pointing emphatically in my direction.
Thankfully her brother eventually dragged us out and put us in the car. I woke up the next morning to a sore head, a red face and a kitchen sticky with Advocaat and vodka (we'd tried making Baby Guinnesses but had none of the ingredients, so improvised). Possibly not one of my better public appearances.
Miss M and I had been drinking of an evening with her elder brother and as ever were reluctant to go home before we absolutely had to, so he offered to bring us along to a party. It was a crazy shirt party (should that be krazy with a K?) being hosted by some of his crazy middle-aged friends (though now that I'm 26 I realise that they were probably in their early thirties at most). We were already crazy drunk by the time we arrived. Noticeably so. Covered in scratches from a tumble into some bushes en route we barrelled in full of beans and made with the merrymaking. The next couple of hours are a bit of a blur (I do know I spent much of the night in the garden, smoking) but another brother of Miss M's arrived in the wee small hours, straight from shift, and upon seeing the state we were in decided he'd drive us home before settling in to a beer himself. Miss M, it transpired, had neither budged from her perch on the couch nor removed her coat. She'd methodically eaten her way through all the chips and was eating what was left of the dips with her fingers, a happy, sticky mess. I was eventually lured in from the garden by the promise of a lift home and steered towards the front door, Miss M trailing along behind me. I opened the door, and there he was.
Jack Lukeman AKA Jack L, the finest thing to come out of Athy, well, ever.
I'll admit I'm a fan. I saw him there, inches from my face, and distinctly remember thinking play it cool. "Oh FUCK!" I screamed "IT'S JACK L!"
Smooth as.
He politely stepped aside to let me past, but of course I stood there grinning like a loon, rooted to the spot. Eventually he had to squeeze through the doorway to get past me, so I promptly turned on my heel and followed him back in, leaving my chauffeur in the car looking pissed off and Miss M still trailing along behind me. Realising I hadn't been as nonchalant in the face of celebrity as I'd like I tried to redeem myself by ignoring him and talking instead to/at his friend, only to overhear Miss M shouting SHE'S YOUR BIGGEST FAN at him and pointing emphatically in my direction.
Thankfully her brother eventually dragged us out and put us in the car. I woke up the next morning to a sore head, a red face and a kitchen sticky with Advocaat and vodka (we'd tried making Baby Guinnesses but had none of the ingredients, so improvised). Possibly not one of my better public appearances.
