I spent a reasonable amount of my life certain I’d be famous one day. I wasn’t entirely sure what for, as I never did anything, but I was confident that one day I’d be hailed as being the best at… something. A shining light in a field TBC. This led to a lot of time spent daydreaming about, for instance, anecdotes I’d tell when I was interviewed on David Letterman or gags with which I’d pepper my Oscar speech (for Best Something). I think a lot of people do this, but I’ve never asked in case I find out they don’t and then have to go on a personal journey of improvement or something.
Obviously I’d also have an autobiography. I’ve read a lot of celebrity autobiographies, because they’re often 99p on Kindle, and the problem with them is the disconnect between what famous people think is interesting about them and what I think is interesting about them. They often want to talk about artistry and personal development, while I want to read about them doing loads of drugs and getting in fights. I thought it would be fun, when my colossal fame made my own memoir inevitable, to do it in a thematic rather than linear way. All the work stuff together for people interested in my (as yet unspecified) career, all the depressing bits together, all the heartwarming ones together, and so on. It would be a truly great approach, and famous people should do it.
I won’t be one of them. I turn 43 today. It’s not old, but I’m definitely more than half done, and the half that’s over is the one where the seeds to any real success would have been sown. That’s alright, and I am happy being Just Some Dude: that’s what most dudes are! But this morning I thought of the title Enmikelopedia Ramptonnica, and now I’m slightly sad there’ll never be any cause for a very tiring book (or, ideally, collection of books) with that name.
If there were, though, here are two short stories that would be in the “silly encounters with glamorous film stars” section. (I wrote up a third, but it was too long and potentially libellous.)
I went to a press conference for the largely forgotten 2008 film The Spirit. On a panel were director Frank Miller and actors Samuel L. Jackson, Eva Mendes and Scarlett Johansson. I had nothing to do at the press conference itself, but was going to try to grab one of the stars for a quick chat on the way out for some magazine filler. It occurred to me that maybe if I asked a jokey question in the press conference, that might help my chances afterwards. I tapped my biro against my forehead and tried to think of something funny. I thought maybe being a bit cheeky was the approach to take: getting a big laugh would make it easier to approach them afterwards. I decided to go for something along the lines of “Eva and Scarlett, I was wondering if, for no particular reason, I could get you both to say ‘Wow, Mike, you’re really good at this’”.
(It was a different time.)
I raised my right hand and scratched my forehead with my left. As I lowered my left hand, I noticed my fingers were stained blue. I touched my forehead again and looked at my fingers. More blue. I had somehow broken my biro on my head while thinking, and my face was covered in pen. I lowered my hand and didn’t ask my question: nothing comes across as boyishly charming when you are accidentally an unusual colour.
In October 2013, I went to Thorpe Park for one of their Halloween-themed Fright Nights. On the train, I drank a great deal of beer. I was doing quite a lot of that at the time, due to a recent domestic rearrangement which meant I was living in a very cold flat filled with slugs. When I arrived at the park, I kept drinking more beer (although at theme park prices these were nothing like great deals!). I can’t recommend it enough as an approach: it makes the scary rides scarier, and even the gentle rides become quite scary when you can’t really walk!
At one point I spotted a group of photographers surrounding a small red carpet and one of those walls covered in logos that they use for events like that. The management of Thorpe Park had invited some famous people along for promotional reasons. I recognised one and realised we had a friend in common, so lurched onto the red carpet to join her.
“KAICHA SCODLEDODLIDO!” I bellowed at the actress Kaya Scodelario, only realising halfway into the first syllable that I didn’t confidently know her name or how to say it. I posed next to her doing a silly face as the photographers snapped a few more shots on the off-chance I was someone, then gave up when it was clear I wasn’t. I started to explain to her that we had a friend in common, only to realise (a) that there were more people in the chain than that, and it was more of a “my friend has a friend in common with your friend” situation, and (b) I couldn’t remember the names of anyone involved because I was so inhumanly drunk. After about twenty-five very long seconds of failing to produce any useful information, I told her how fun the rides were and staggered away. Later that evening, I was so tired from my big adventure that I fell asleep on a bus and went somewhere really stupid.
Imagine a multi-volume collection of thematically-collected anecdotes like that! It would be brilliant. Alas, it is never to happen. The Enmikelopedia Ramptonnica must remain a beautiful, elusive dream. Today I will go to a small zoo with the person I love most in all the world. We will hold hands and look at the red pandas, and despite being Just Some Dude, I will be filled with more happiness than could be brought about by all the fame and fortune anyone could dream of. That said, if anyone has about sixteen thousand pounds going spare, that would be really handy. Account deets on request, mikerampton at gmail if PayPalling, great stuff, good times all round.