Apparently there is some sort of competition happening where you can bid to get Gary Barlow to come and sing at your milestone birthday party. I have been made aware of this by the power of Twitter. As you know, I am a huge fan of Twitter, but as far as I’m concerned, the Barlow competition is a step too near the dark side for me. People have said that there is a troubling element to Twitter, and I’ve always disagreed until now.
As if it weren’t bad enough, hitting a milestone birthday, but to then have the Barlow turning up on your doorstep to croon to you? That would absolutely finish me off. They might as well just dig my grave and butter the path for me.
To be fair, it isn’t just Gary I would shun. I can’t think of a single celebrity that I would like to turn up and serenade me on my birthday. I think I am just far too British for this sort of thing. I would actually melt with embarrassment, there and then, on the spot. I would be rendered inert with the singular humiliation. It would be as if all the birthday/hen night strippers in humanity were massed in ranks of baby oiled flesh before me.
Death would be preferable.
I cannot cope with that kind of public exposure. I have never wanted to really meet anyone famous since I was about fifteen and realised that I would be required to actually speak to them rather than stare at them in goggle eyed wonderment. What do you say to people? I mean it’s hard enough speaking to people on the way to and from the school run. What do you say to people who have people who do the school run for them?
If you are me, you say utterly random things that make Miranda Hart’s repartee look like she’s been to a Swiss Finishing School specialising in witty banter and bon mots.
Things that you have learned recently, things that are crowded at the forefront of your mind, just waiting for you to open your mouth before they squeak out through your panic constricted vocal chords.
‘Did you know that male goats urinate on their own heads to make themselves more attractive to nanny goats? Do you ever wonder how they do that? I mean, they don’t look that bendy, do they?’
‘Did you know that the term ‘git’ used to denote the child of a prostitute? I wonder if it comes from a bastardisation of the word ‘beget’?’
‘Did you know that the stuffed effigy of Lenin in Red Square looks a bit like that painting of The Lady of Shalott? And he’s not even the real Lenin. They had to replace him after the first one went a bit funny. I wonder what happened to him? Do you think he got the moth, or maybe he was eaten by mice? Perhaps it was both.’
‘Did you know that in lacrosse, there are more women in a team than there are men? There are twelve in a ladies’ team and ten in a men’s team. What’s that all about then? Do you think male lacrosse players are wider and therefore you need fewer of them to plug the gaps?’
That sort of thing.
It’s probably why I never have birthday parties, not even milestone ones, and definitely not celebrity ones.