“...oh God, what’s his name? The baldy guy?”

IT IS Saturday afternoon. I join my husband and a small group of friends who have gathered around a café table in town.

I sit down. It seems they have been discussing whether fame and social graces are mutually exclusive phenomena. The man on my right has the gleam of old, old stories in his eyes. He’s recalling his brief stint in furniture removals, London.

“There was one guy we did a job for - oh God - whatshisname, you know him... famous English comedian... whatshisnameagain... anyway,” he says, “he was a right rude bastard.”