by Matt Lucas
When I got in the car, the driver gasped. ‘It’s you! I know you! Yeah, they told me someone famous was getting in the car! So what are you filming here? And why don’t I see you on TV anymore?’ He then attempted to drive out the wrong way, and so the gate wouldn’t open.
‘That’s the entrance,’ I said. ‘The exit is on the other side of the studio.’
‘Oh, I’ve never been here before. What is this place anyway?’ asked the driver.
Reader, I had no chat left. I was chatted out. I was Matt minus chat. I shouldn’t have just opened the door, grabbed my bag and got out of the car without offering an explanation – but I did. That driver probably thinks I’m an arsehole. Actually, I probably am.
I lost it a couple of years ago too, when I took my friend’s eleven-year-old son to see Cats at the London Palladium. During the interval I was ambushed and I felt bad for my friend’s son, who sort of knows I’m a bit famous but doesn’t really think of me in that way. He waited patiently as a line of people wanting selfies formed.
At the front of the line were two women, who’d had a drink or two I would say, both of whom wanted photos. One of the theatre staff helpfully took the camera phones from the women and they each got a photo, but that wasn’t enough. They wanted more photos, some with just one of them and me, others with both of them and me, and then the same on the other phone, and then more photos because they checked to see if they’d come out and then one of the girls didn’t like the pose she’d struck.
On and on it went, and the bell rang to let the audience know that it was time to start making our way back to our seats. The women had taken so long that everyone else in the queue had missed out on a photo. Straight after the show I was due to hotfoot it into a waiting cab to go and record a TV show, so I couldn’t offer to pose for anyone afterwards. I apologised to the waiting crowd of people and we headed back towards our seats.
As we walked down the aisle of the auditorium, I noticed that the two women were dawdling in front of me. One still had her phone out and I realised that she was slyly filming herself in the foreground while framing me in the background, pointing back at me, showing me off like some kind of trophy. I felt this was unfair given that I had just posed endlessly for them both and I called her out on it.
She said, ‘No, no, we weren’t doing that.’
‘Show me your phone then,’ I replied.
She handed it to me. I looked and there it was, video footage and stills of the two girls, laughing and signalling at me.
So what? Why should I care?
Those are the two questions I can answer effortlessly as I type this, the responses being ‘So what indeed’ and ‘I don’t care. It’s a bit rude but it really makes no difference to me’.
But in that moment I did care. It really bugged me that I had chatted with these women and willingly posed for umpteen photos at the expense of everyone else, and that they were still trying to sneak more.
‘I’d really appreciate it if you would delete those pics,’ I said.
The girl with the phone immediately agreed to, and started to press some buttons, but I now had the hump and I just didn’t trust them. I looked over her shoulder and checked, imperiously. Yes, they had deleted the offending pictures, but I then started to delete the ones I had posed for too.
‘Don’t do that!’ cried the other girl.
Too late. I’d already wiped the lot. The two girls stood there open-mouthed as the lights started to go down and I scuttled off to my seat for the second act.
I spent the next hour sitting there conflicted. In one moment I felt that I had stood up for myself. Why should I be photographed without my permission, especially when I had given up several minutes of my time already for the same pushy people? The next moment I decided I had gone quite mad, and that I’d probably be reading about what happened on the Daily Mail website under the headline ‘LITTLE SHIT’UN’ – complete with a photo of the two girls holding a stack of Little Britain DVDs for the camera and looking sad.
I can’t work out if this is a funny story or not, and whether I come out of it as a human being with limits, who just snapped, or whether you’d be entirely within your rights to think I’m a prick. I suspect that on that day, in that moment, those two women paid the price for all of the times people have sneaked up on me and stolen a photo without asking. It seems to happen everywhere. I’ve even had it in toilets, gym changing rooms or while asleep on a plane. The onus is always on the celeb to be bigger, to not react. Well, sod it. The more I think about it, they had it coming (and I’m also a bit of a prick).
10. The surprise of seeing a celebrity in real life is often coupled with an exclamation about the absurdity of seeing them in a specific place. That’s right, not only have you spotted me, but you’ve done so in the Co-op in Fort William, or on the train to Stoke Poges, or in a cable car above Taronga Zoo or freezing my nuts off on the Brecon Beacons.
‘What brings you here?’ is usually the question.
‘Well, everyone has to be somewhere.’
About twenty-five years ago Ashley Blaker and I were on the Tube on a Sunday morning, heading to Camden Market. I was a frequent visitor, scouring the stalls weekly for bootleg tapes of Queen concerts, the audio quality of which was invariably so poor it sounded like the band had dispensed with microphones and used walkie-talkies instead.
As we sat on the Northern Line train, passing through Golders Green, then Hampstead, then Belsize Park, we shared an unexpected moment that we still recall fondly today, with equal parts of joy and shame. The carriage doors opened and an elderly but sprightly and very glammed-up lady in a smart, thick lilac coat entered, escorted by a young gentleman. She sat opposite him, a couple of seats away from us, and chatted away, not seeking to draw attention to herself but not inhibited either. I didn’t have to look at Ashley and he didn’t have to look at me to know that we had simultaneously recognised the lady in the carriage. For this was Anna Wing, who some years before had played matriarch Lou Beale in EastEnders.
Our shock and delight at her unexpected presence, coupled with her cut-glass accent (rather than the Cockney tones we were used to hearing from her) sent Ashley and me into paroxysms of laughter. Trapped in the Tube carriage – as she was too – we wept, silently at first, our eyes desperately trained on the floor in the hope that we would be able to restore our dignity forthwith, or at least not be so obvious. We soon realised, however, that we were fighting a losing battle. We gave in and laughed, helplessly, and with some volume, barely a metre away from her. We shook. We rocked. We howled.
And she made no acknowledgement. There’s grace for you.
I have since been on the receiving end of this type of behaviour. It happens a little less often to me, I suspect, than it might to some other poor celebs, as I am not attached to any one specific character and am known for being fairly ridiculous in the first place, but nonetheless, I have experienced it often enough to know that, despite not reacting to it at all, poor Anna Wing would unquestionably have been aware of our hysteria and quite possibly it might have embarrassed her almost as much as we embarrassed ourselves.
So I guess you could say I can’t complain when it happens to me. I’m an icon. You’re only human.
11. Sometimes people come up to me and say, ‘They tell me you’re famous. I actually don’t know who you are’. To which I reply, ‘Well, I don’t know who you are either, so there you go.’
12. Because I’m a ‘famous comedian’, even when I say things that clearly aren’t that funny, people often really laugh a lot. I wish it had been like that when I was working my way up, when some nights I couldn’t get a laugh for love nor money, but I’m not complaining. Sometimes, though, when I am trying to be deadly serious, people laugh even more. And then sometimes, when I just walk into a room, people laugh. I haven’t even done anything, but we catch each other’s eye and that’s enough. It’s like having a superpower. Not as good a one as being able to shrink down to the size of an ant and
then using your size to scurry under doors and help you solve mysteries, but still quite a good one.
13. You’re never alone. When my dad was a teenager he skived off school for the day with some pals to watch a cricket match at Lord’s. When the gang went back to school the next day, they were in big trouble. A couple of the teachers had been following the game on a TV in the staff room when the camera happened to capture the band of reprobates – in school uniform – with their feet up, drinking and smoking. What rotten luck.
Nowadays, thanks to social media, somebody somewhere will post ‘Just seen the fat one off Little Britain buying two sausage rolls at the Greggs in Leigh Delamere services’ before I’ve even got back to the car. Consequently, if you’re famous, you can’t lie anymore. Your every bloody move is documented. It’s positively Orwellian. Big Brother is watching me, and I don’t even get an appearance fee. Still, at least I don’t have to share a hot tub with George Galloway or Heavy D. BOOM!
14. Okay, this is something that happens a lot. A person will recognise me and come up to me and say hello, and we’ll have a nice chat. Then a second person, watching this happen, will wait until the first person has gone and then sidle over and say, ‘I bet it’s really annoying when that happens, when people just come over and talk to you because you’re famous.’ As if they’re not doing exactly that themselves.
15. If small talk could kill, all of your favourite celebrities would be lying dead on the ground. I meet hundreds of people in a week but we almost always end up talking about the same things. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not ungrateful. I’m continually surprised and flattered that anybody wants to talk to me in the first place, and if all you really want to know is whether David Walliams is as funny in real life as he is on TV, that’s fine. I will try and oblige. But if you bump into me by the turnstiles at the Emirates stadium or in the aisles of M&S in Cardiff, don’t be afraid to talk about something else. In fact, be as random as you like: the benefits of reflexology, the Bay of Pigs invasion, the frightful gerrymandering of Lady Porter, whatever. Bring it on.
16. If I go to a restaurant once, and then go back two and a half years later, the waiter will say ‘Diet Coke again, Mr Lucas?’ You might say that’s the sign of a good waiter. I say it’s a bit weird. Oh, and yes, please. With a slice of lime. Not too much ice.
17. If I get the Tube, someone will usually say to me, ‘Oh, I thought you’d be too famous to be on here’, the inference being that as a celebrity I must surely consider myself too rich and important to travel with the hoi polloi. If I’m sat in traffic in the back of a nice car with the window down, I’ll hear a passer-by mutter, ‘Oh, too up himself to get the Tube, I see’.
Flying is usually eventful. ‘Thought you’d be in First Class,’ says someone as I take my seat next to them on the plane. Guess what? Me too. I also thought they’d have invented hypersonic travel by now so I could nip over to Sydney for a Foster’s and be home in time for Wheel of Fortune. I’ll travel First Class if I’ve got enough air miles. Otherwise forget it. Walliams, on the other hand, has now sold so many children’s books he can probably buy his own private jet, all decked out in pink, with a river inside it for him to swim up, but despite what you may read, most celebrities don’t earn anything like what you might think.
Every so often there’s a gleeful article in the tabloids about how some former star has fallen. It’s usually someone who was in Hollyoaks who now does a bit of gardening, or a former children’s TV presenter stacking the shelves at B&Q. We’re all supposed to join in the derision, as if getting off your arse and working is somehow less admirable than sitting at home watching Loose Women. Bugger that. If this book doesn’t sell and Doctor Who leaves me stranded on a far-away planet somewhere, don’t be surprised if you see me at the Westfield in Stratford selling mobile phone cases. Those Orange Viscounts won’t buy themselves.
18. There is smoke without fire. When you’re famous, you get slandered and libelled relentlessly, and much of what is written about you has not the slightest kernel of truth in it, not even a grain. And you’re expected to ignore it. Any other kind of response and you’re considered weak and over-sensitive, or worse, guilty.
Most of the time, when you get libelled in a publication, it’s best to shrug it off. Choose your battles. When it’s more serious and you really do have to fight back, even if you get an apology and a contribution to your legal costs, you’re still almost always out of pocket. I call it ‘the fame tax’.
19. The vast majority of autograph hunters waiting at the stage door or behind the barrier at a film premiere are professional and will sell your signature immediately on eBay. They come equipped with marker pens and glossy 10 x 8 photos. I went through a stage where I would only sign the autograph if I could personally dedicate it to someone, because I thought it would be less use to a professional if it said ‘Hello Sanjay’ or ‘Happy 36th wedding anniversary Sandy and Phil!’ That was until I learned that the professionals have special tools to remove Sharpie ink.
Sometimes I just think ‘Ah well, they’ve stood out there all night, it only takes a few seconds to sign, good luck to them’. Other times it bugs me that the professionals are out in force, because while some are polite and friendly, others can be aggressive and push real fans out of the way.
20. This one’s specific to me, but people do sometimes come up to me and say ‘Are you bovvered? Are you bovvered?’ They are, of course, mistaking me for Catherine Tate – or rather, mistaking Little Britain teenage reprobate Vicky Pollard for Catherine’s teenage reprobate Lauren. And in turn I know Catherine has folk saying, ‘Yeah but no but’ to her.
In response to the question, no, this doesn’t bovver me particularly. It turns out almost every celebrity experiences this, including many who are a good deal more famous than I am. Mark Wahlberg, Matt Damon and Guy Pearce all get accused of being each other. Plenty of people talk to Rob Brydon thinking he’s Anton du Beke. The only time it did freak me out was when, for a couple of months after the end of the second series of Big Brother, a few people thought I was that chap Bubble. And the main reason I didn’t like it was because he was a Chelsea fan.
21. Yes, when you’re famous you get invited to lots of shows for free. That’s not a myth. But when it happens, be aware that you are there to endorse the show. You’re expected to walk the red carpet (which for ladies, in particular, may require the purchase of a new dress and forking out for a stylist and make-up artist) and you’ll be asked to pose for photos with the cast, and with any other random celeb who happens to be on the carpet at the same time. Often a microphone will be shoved in your face, and even if you thought Hamlet on Ice was an insufferable pile of tosh, you’ll be expected to rave on about how innovative it was. At the after-show party you’ll be approached by gossip columnists looking for a scoop. I find it hard in those circumstances to relax and have a drink for fear of saying the wrong thing, or saying the right thing but still being misquoted.
22. Following on from the last point, if you’re in a bar and someone offers to buy you a drink, that means you are sort of obliged to sit with them and have it. I actually like a chat with anyone, but if I’m in a bar I’m usually with someone already, so I tend to politely decline the offer. Another reason I say no is that I’m not really much of a drinker. Perhaps if pâtisseries were as entrenched in British culture as pubs are, and strangers sent éclairs or macaroons over to my table, I might not be quite so restrained.
23. Damon Albarn once said, ‘Everyone accuses you of changing when you become famous, but as far as I’m concerned it’s the people around you who change. I’m still the same.’
I can identify with that. If you ever read or hear someone say how they were ‘dropped’ by their friend or family member when they became famous, that might actually be because the friend or family member became a berk. I had a friend who worked in TV and who, at the height of Little Britain’s popularity, kept asking me to appear on whatever programme he was working on. I later found o
ut that he would go to job interviews and make it clear that if he got the job, he’d be able to get me and other showbiz friends of his to contribute to the show. I felt a bit used. I think there might be some truth in what Damon said.
24. Despite what I assumed as a child, fame does not provide immunity to sadness or anxiety. Being a celebrity has its great sides, but if you see it as a solution to your problems, rather than a by-product of your achievements, you will be disappointed. Mostly it just means it takes you longer to get round Waitrose.
Fame is ridiculous, but it’s the one thing I have that people seem to want most, generating more interest, more fascination, certainly more conversation than any other story I might be able to tell.
25. My favourite character in Fame was Bruno Martelli. I liked it when he played his synthesiser.
P – Prosopagnosia
So I’ve got this thing called prosopagnosia. I’ve never been officially diagnosed by a doctor or anything, but trust me, I’ve got it.
Prosopagnosia is also called ‘face blindness’ and is a cognitive disorder of perception where the ability to recognise familiar faces is impaired. Other aspects of visual processing – knowing what an object is, or being able to make a decision, for example – remain intact. (Thank you, Wikipedia, for helping me with this description, BTW.)
I’m not a vague person. I’m a stickler for detail, as anyone who’s worked with me will testify. But when it comes to knowing who anyone is, I’m screwed, because I’m terrible at remembering faces. Useless.
Last year I was at a party. I tend to avoid parties – mainly because I get caught in embarrassing situations like these. I didn’t know many people there, but I did recognise someone I had worked with a couple of years earlier. I was able to work out who he was because he’d been the cameraman on a film that was directed by the host of the party – so when he greeted me, my brain was able to figure out a link.