The Importance of Being Idol

They say you should never meet your idols. This is true in all but two cases.

A few days ago, I had the good fortune to meet a nutjob extraordinaire, the cult director Tommy Wiseau at a screening in the Prince Charles Theatre. While his filmography is brash, honest and highly embarrassing, he is known to be quite secretive, and I was worried that following years of haranguing and critique, the Tommy who screamed “You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!” might no longer exist.

Thankfully, I was entirely wrong. Tommy’s publicist (if he has one) clearly, and well advisedly, takes a very hands-off approach. Tommy was dressed in teenager black with long, greasy hair. He was creepy. He refused to give a straight answer to pretty much every question asked. A friend who attended a different showing was subjected to the cinematic crotch being thrust towards her face. In short, meeting Tommy was great. Meeting Tommy was fine for the simple reason that Tommy is one of those rare people in the world who is, for most purposes, two dimensional. He can never fall backwards off his pedestal because, frankly, he has no idea what backwards means.

For example, I am not worried by my inevitable introduction to (and seduction by?) the wonder that is Joanna Lumley. My awe of her stems almost entirely from her strip-me-naked-and-take-me-on-your-fox-fur-bed-sheets voice. In this one function she is unlikely to fail me (unless her chain-smoking gets the better of her and following a battle with throat cancer she has to have her voice box replaced by a Steven Hawking contraption. When that day comes I will wall myself up in my room with the complete boxed-sets of Ab Fab).

Aside from Mr. Wiseau, I have only met a few celebrities in my time, and I have picked wisely. Brian Blessed jumped onto the table at the Oxford Union and bellowed, whereas I carefully avoided the later appearance by the unsexy, witticism-free, unarmed prune that is the preserved and decrepit Roger Moore.

There’s another time that it’s appropriate—indeed desirable—to finally meet the wizard behind the curtain: in love. Humans are all hugely flawed individuals. Because of this, it would be nigh-on impossible for two of these dreadful creatures to pick a mate to meet the exacting standards that nature, and Cosmopolitan, demands what with all the glaring flaws and foibles we all exude. Thankfully, nature has conceived of a chemical way to lower the rose-tinted glasses our eyes when we meet someone who might—disregarding the fact that they watch cricket, or leave their dead skin on the floor, or adore Cher—actually work. So we form these lovely idealized forms of people, which we then fall in love with and exchange saliva with to test for genetic compatibility and lots of other ace stuff. Eventually, though it the time comes to peel off the alabaster shell and see what’s underneath. Most of the time, like a Kinder Surprise, the flimsy model doesn’t live up to the rich and delicious casing. Sometimes though, in a few rare occasions what’s underneath is actually better than the cliché you built around what you thought you wanted. And isn’t that nice?

As a young child I also met Mr Motivator who as a Man From TV, was A Big Deal. I’m not sure what affect it had on my later ability to form relationships. Probably not as much as the disappointment of Kinder Egg after fucking Kinder Egg.

— Dusk