Never Meet Your Heroes

It rarely ends well, but you might get a good anecdote out of it.

The sudden passing of Tony Slattery has prompted an outpouring of love that I haven’t seen in years. Possibly not since the death of another complex, gifted comedian, Sean Hughes. One thing that has stood out with Slattery, however, is how many people didn’t just grow up adoring him when watching him from their sofa on Whose Line Is It Anyway? they also met him in person and had lovely encounters with him.

Younger comedians – and non-performing fans – have recalled Slattery being friendly, warm and immensely supportive. He shared coffee and time and offered advice and career tips. In comedian Rachel Creeger’s case, for example, he said he would have words with his TV producer friends and try and get her on Live at the Apollo (although I did wonder that if he had influential friends why couldn’t he get himself on TV more often in the last few years).

I was thinking back about whether I could chip in with an anecdote about meeting Slattery, but although I saw him live onstage numerous times, I never actually met him. And then I remembered that about three years ago, I think it must have been post-Covid, I very nearly did meet him at the Edinburgh Fringe.

We were staying in the same student apartment block about half a mile from the Pleasance and it seemed that every afternoon when I popped back to do some writing he would be sitting alone outside on a bench. I was so tempted to say hello, but he seemed to be in quiet contemplation and I didn’t want to disturb him.

Maybe looking back now if I had introduced myself we might have had a great chat. But at the time my mind raced with all the things that could go wrong. I had read how mentally fragile he was, and maybe he was preparing for a show. I didn’t want to be the person to put him in a bad frame of mind just as he was about to perform.

Or maybe if I introduced myself and explained that I was a journalist it might trigger a suspicion in him about my motives. I imagine he had had enough bad experiences with reporters over the years to be wary of them. So even though I meant well and wanted to speak to him as a fan I felt there would be too much baggage on my side.

I now wish I had made an exception, but as a rule I don’t speak to famous people. I like to joke that it is just in case we hit it off so well that we become great mates and then I have to review them. I need to retain some distance. Of course, I’ve never hit it off with a comedian.

There is only handful of comics that I would even say hello to if I met them off duty (Harry Hill and Tim Key spring to mind. And Micky Flanagan, but that’s only because we used to be near neighbours and I used to see him in the park during lockdown. Jenny Eclair too, as she is also local - actually that’s more than I thought!).

I’ve kept contact with stars to a minimum because I’ve found those encounters never end well. And it’s not necessarily the fault of the stars. It’s quite possibly my fault. I’m fine in an interview scenario where I’ve researched and written down my questions, but put me in a social situation and I’ve got the same anxieties and tendencies to say the wrong thing as anyone else.

And somehow things are evn worse when you like the person a lot. I used to write about music and was a big fan of Stephen ‘Tintin’ Duffy. We’d even corresponded briefly and then a few years later I was commissioned to interview him to discuss his new album Astronauts, which, coincidentally, has just been re-released.

This involved travelling to Great Malvern where he lived. I was really looking forward to it. I really thought that this might result in us becoming great mates. But before the interview could begin he met me at the station. I don’t know what I said, but we’d barely got past the ticket office and it was clear we hadn’t clicked.

If I hadn’t been working I’d have got the next train back to Paddington, but somehow I had to grit my teeth, sit opposite him in a bleak cafe and work my way through my list of questions. What should have been one of my best interviewing experiences turned out to be one of my worst. I think it was at that point that I concluded it was probably best never to meet your heroes.

To meet your heroes or avoid them like the plague? It’s a delicate balancing act and one that to this day I don’t think I’ve ever got right.

I’m often invited backstage after comedy gigs, but what do you say to someone that has just come offstage and is buzzing with adrenaline apart from “great gig”. I might be reasonably articulate when I open my laptop but if I have to open my gob it’s a different story.

As I avoid these encounters nowadays post-Duffy I have to think back to my encounters as a music journalist. One of my favourite bands was The June Brides. I’d seen them playing in pubs loads of times and knew them to nod to. Then on one occasion i found myself standing next to the bass player Ade after their set. All I could think of to say to him was “great bass playing”. After that I was stumped.

So these days I steer clear of hanging out with comedians. I’ve been approached a number of times about writing a book about my life in comedy. I imagine commissioning editors and publishers think I know where the bodies are buried, I will be able to dish the dirt and I can offer them some inside gossip.

I’m afraid I’d be a great disappointment to them. All I’d be able to write is that Micky Flanagan has a nice dog, Jenny Eclair uses the same laundry as me and Ade from The June Brides does some great bass playing.