Monday, 5 November 2007

Broderick's MONDAY Special #6: Celebrity

A belated column to celebrate Bonfire Night.


It's becoming increasingly cliched to take swipes at celebrities. They're easy targets, after all, like overfed ducklings. This week it was reported that Heather Mills-ex-McCartney has decided to design a line of furniture. Now, I could take up precious space making an easy joke about what a stupid business choice that is, because no one wants to buy a range of furniture where one leg is always shorter than the others, but I won't.

But I will tell you this. I was having my hair cut last week at this place called The Men's Lounge, which is basically like what an old fashioned working men's barbershop would look like if it was inside John Barrowman's ass. It's very pretentious. But they do have free beer, and Playstation 3. Although all they seem to play is FIFA World Cup (that's football). I've tried to get them to get something I'd be interested in, like Metroid, or Legend of Zelda, but I don't think that fits with their image.

Anyways, I'm getting my hair cut, enjoying my hairdresser's calming, dulcet tones, like a wave crashing against a duvet cover. We're talking about my fascinating work at the sushi restaurant. I am relaxed.

This is good. Since an early age I have always been petrified of haircuts. This, I believe, is due to:

a) a worry that cutting my hair will rob me of my virility
b) seeing a kid run screaming out of Richmond Barbers with a bloody rag cupped over his dripping, incarnadine ear at the age of 5.

But this dude's good. I'm totally at ease. The conversation turns to the fact that there's a sushi restaurant next door to The Men's Lounge.

'Yeah, it's pretty depressing inside,' he says, like a caramel voiced pigeon, 'but there's good sushi.'

'And,' he continues, 'you know who I saw in there the other day? Fuckin' Heather Mills-McCartney!'

'Really?' I'm skeptical, mostly because eating inside that sushi restaurant would be like eating inside an onboard toilet on a bus. But filthier.

'Was she with other people?'

'Nah, just by herself. I had to do a bit of a double take. She wasn't even reading a book or newspaper or anything. Just staring out the window with her dead zombie eyes.'

'That's very sad.'

'You're telling me. You'd think she'd be in Nobu. Hey, did you see her flip out on GMTV?'

The haircut's over. I look like a fuzzier version of myself. I hand over my money and put on my coat. I've left a good tip.

'See ya next time, B,' he says.

Then I realize. I have no idea what this man's name is. I've been getting my hair cut here for nearly a year, in twelve monthly installments, and I have no idea what his name is. Not even a first letter, or number of syllables. Blind panic strikes me. He knows my name, in fact, knows it well enough to forgo the use of all but the first letter of it! But I have to phone in and give over my name to get an appointment. That's why he knows my name! That's cheating!

Did he ever introduce himself? Maybe he never even said his name. What does he have to hide? Or, oh god, what if this is another one of those things where I can't understand what people are saying because the English accent is so thick!

I've been stood there, grinning, for a significant length of time. 'Yeah, uh, see you later... You!'

Triumphantly, I walk away.

I have to find a new hairdresser now, because next time, that bleeding ear'll be mine.

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