Knowing that the festive season was almost upon us, and that the only culture in London would soon consist solely of pantos, badly sung Christmas carols and drunken city workers dancing in the street, I tried to indulge in a bit of high culture last week. First, G and I went off to see the excellent play Red, at the Donmar. Then C and I went to see Keira Knightly in her West End debut in Misanthrope. G had other plans that night and sadly couldn't join us, although he did very kindly offer to give me 50 quid if during the play I shouted out to Ms Knightly that she looks like she needs to eat a burger. Strangely, I declined that offer, although I was fascinated upon seeing Ms Knightly in the flesh to discover that it's possible to be so devoid of fat that your ribs and collarbones create shadows on your chest.
After the show, C and I wandered past the stage door around which a small crowd was gathering. We quickly worked out they were there to see Ms Knightly take the four steps necessary to get into the large black vehicle waiting outside. C insisted we join them, in the hope we might get our programme signed to sell it and make enough money for another trip to Seville. It was at that point that our cultured evening degenerated and I found myself living the life of an OK! paparazzo.
We waited outside in the cold along with the rest of the small crowd for Ms Knightly to appear. It soon dawned on us that we were the only celebrity stalking novices in the crowd. Our first clue was when the fellow next to me pulled out a stack of identical head shots of Ms Knightly from his backpack. He seemed to be running a small business, trading in signed photos of celebrities. It was also evident when the woman to my right, in her very fine ugg boots and miniskirt, complained to her friend they were having to wait a lot longer this time than when they saw "Judes" at the stage door. She might have been referring to Judy Dench, although I rather suspect it was a Mr Law for whom she'd previously waited in the cold to see.
To our left a paparazzo was holding court, with a group of young admirers quizzing him about his "celebrity lifestyle". We had the pleasure of overhearing snippets of his speeches, told in a thick cockney accent with a cigarette permanently hanging from his lip.
"I've just come from doin' Posh, y'know. Yep, just saw Posh. Typical day."
"y'know, Keira, she wears the same clothes every day she comes out that stage door. Only thing that might change is 'er scarf. You watch. It'll be blue jeans and a tan coat. She does it so we won't take photos, or won't sell 'em. But I'm still 'ere! Got 'er every night, I 'ave."
"yep, I've got Kylie. Y'know, who do you think was more famous in Oz then, Kylie or Dannie? ... Nah, was Dannie. She was on some show, Young Talent Time, y'see. We all think Kylie was the famous one, and Dannie got famous through 'er, but it was Dannie first."
And then Ms Knightly appeared. The paparazzo, without dropping the cigarette from his lips, picked up his camera and snapped furiously at Ms Knightly who was, it turned out, wearing blue jeans and a tan coat. The crowd went wild. All 15 of them. At that point, I realised I was no match for the die-hard fans, and took a few steps back to watch the mayhem. Unfortunately, C was also no match, and was quickly pushed out of the pack by the surge of the small but dedicated crowd. Up close, Ms Knightly was no larger in life than she was on the stage. In any event, she was only there for a surly moment, enough to sign only one or two programmes. During that moment, I briefly contemplated taking G up on his bet, and shouting to her to eat a burger. After realising she was surrounded with burly bodyguards, however, I changed my mind and simply stood along with the die-hard fans, paparazzo and small-time businessmen and watched as she disappeared from view behind the black tinted windows of her car. Then, in silence, as though we had just been witness to a moment for which great solemnity and respect was required, the paparazzo, businessmen, fans and C and I quietly packed up and dispersed into the London night.
We waited outside in the cold along with the rest of the small crowd for Ms Knightly to appear. It soon dawned on us that we were the only celebrity stalking novices in the crowd. Our first clue was when the fellow next to me pulled out a stack of identical head shots of Ms Knightly from his backpack. He seemed to be running a small business, trading in signed photos of celebrities. It was also evident when the woman to my right, in her very fine ugg boots and miniskirt, complained to her friend they were having to wait a lot longer this time than when they saw "Judes" at the stage door. She might have been referring to Judy Dench, although I rather suspect it was a Mr Law for whom she'd previously waited in the cold to see.
To our left a paparazzo was holding court, with a group of young admirers quizzing him about his "celebrity lifestyle". We had the pleasure of overhearing snippets of his speeches, told in a thick cockney accent with a cigarette permanently hanging from his lip.
"I've just come from doin' Posh, y'know. Yep, just saw Posh. Typical day."
"y'know, Keira, she wears the same clothes every day she comes out that stage door. Only thing that might change is 'er scarf. You watch. It'll be blue jeans and a tan coat. She does it so we won't take photos, or won't sell 'em. But I'm still 'ere! Got 'er every night, I 'ave."
"yep, I've got Kylie. Y'know, who do you think was more famous in Oz then, Kylie or Dannie? ... Nah, was Dannie. She was on some show, Young Talent Time, y'see. We all think Kylie was the famous one, and Dannie got famous through 'er, but it was Dannie first."
And then Ms Knightly appeared. The paparazzo, without dropping the cigarette from his lips, picked up his camera and snapped furiously at Ms Knightly who was, it turned out, wearing blue jeans and a tan coat. The crowd went wild. All 15 of them. At that point, I realised I was no match for the die-hard fans, and took a few steps back to watch the mayhem. Unfortunately, C was also no match, and was quickly pushed out of the pack by the surge of the small but dedicated crowd. Up close, Ms Knightly was no larger in life than she was on the stage. In any event, she was only there for a surly moment, enough to sign only one or two programmes. During that moment, I briefly contemplated taking G up on his bet, and shouting to her to eat a burger. After realising she was surrounded with burly bodyguards, however, I changed my mind and simply stood along with the die-hard fans, paparazzo and small-time businessmen and watched as she disappeared from view behind the black tinted windows of her car. Then, in silence, as though we had just been witness to a moment for which great solemnity and respect was required, the paparazzo, businessmen, fans and C and I quietly packed up and dispersed into the London night.
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