Last Friday attended a very worldly flat party in Hammersmith put on by a school friend of Anna’s. There were Australians, Spaniards, Germans, French and other murky characters. There were sadly no Swedes for me to banter with. I improvised with a lot of cider and was soon swearing in French, German, Spanish and Australian.

There was no ice in the house. The brave New Zealanders decided to venture out to the local Tesco to find ice. We found ice and Michael Barrymore. He was in the queue in front of us. He was nursing an arm in a bandage and some provisions. Now please excuse me, my cider ailed vision did not twig to who he was straight away. In fact, I did not know who he was until a lot later. It might have been because he was not in a suit and he was not singing or dancing. Anna’s friend invited him to our party, but he had to take his groceries home. Being friendly, affable people we offered to walk him home and then take him to our party. Michael was quite chuffed to be taking some Kiwis home.

He was probably quite chuffed to be taking some men home. I thought he was harmless enough, a bit touchy but as far as people to go home with from a Tesco on a Friday night on a whim he seemed alright. We were soon scaring the two people he had at home and meeting his Jack Russell terrier named Jack. Some drinks were made and I slowly started to realise who we had gone home with. Another friend turned up who was very English and was not very comfortable about gatecrashing Michael Barrymore’s flat in Hammersmith. I let slip to Mike that I was married and the magic moment started to fade away.

I did leave Mike one of my cards with the address of the party on it. I also got to tell him to keep his shirt on. Some great Zen Kiwi philosophy there.

The worst thing about meeting Michael Barrymore? Going back to the party and no one knowing who he was. Even the mighty El Fuerte does not know who Michael Barrymore is. Quite a hard person to explain.