I don't think I really mean Stalker. That's a negative word, with connotations of obsession.
You read about them in the papers sometime, restraining orders and ASBOs, that sort of thing. Sometimes it's people stalking their exes or their unrequited lust-object, often it's celebrities who attract stalkers. Indeed, a few months ago on holiday, we kept going to the hotel restaurant moments after another couple, I said to them "You're celebrities now you've got stalkers..."
I tried a bit of celebrity stalking recently.
I was fairly half-hearted about it. I just don't like the concept.
I am not really sure that I like the idea of being the sort of person who hangs around Stage Doors and seeks autographs. I don't seek autographs, myself, preferring the taking-a-photo approach. But it boils down to the same.
It would really scare me to be the sort of person who pursues a celebrity incessantly. I'm not talking about repeated attendances at concerts or whatever, I mean pursuing the person as a person, not as an entertainer.
So, I indulged in my own brand of celebrity stalking, which is half-hearted and, frankly, rubbish.
His last performance before London was in Vienna on 30th June. So I figured out he would arrive sometime between then and the 8th July. During that time I learnt which hotel he was staying at. I learnt when he had been in rehearsal (not frightfully useful info to have after the event). I even found out some gossip...
On the Friday, I allowed plenty of time to get to Covent Garden because of transport disruptions, and I wandered up Floral Street past the Stage Door before figuring it was far too early to go into the Opera House, so I went elsewhere for a coffee and a croissant.
During one of the intervals Simon told me that he had seen my hero arrive, at 3.30 (approximately 15 or 20 minutes before I had walked past the Stage Door) and was surrounded by middle-aged women. Plácido, that is, not Simon.
After the performance I again walked along Floral Street, mainly because it was the best way to get to Leicester Square or Charing Cross to get a Tube home. Quite a crowd was gathered outside. Even though I had to be up the next morning, I decided to linger, more out of curiosity than anything. Eventually, Security said that the cast were inside having a first night party, and there was no predicting when they would be out. In the meantime I had heard that Plácido had appeared at the Stage Door in the Second Interval to sign autographs etc, so I made a mental note. I also worked out which was his car, and noted the registration number.
The following Tuesday I remembered my mental note, and when I had finished work I decided to go along to Covent Garden to be in time for the Second Interval. Now, TfL maintains it takes forty minutes from my office to the Royal Opera House. It actually takes twenty minutes, especially the Gert-lazy way,
Nevertheless, I allowed extra time because of transport disruption, and ended up spending ages browsing in Books Etc. Feeling very sorely tempted to spend money I haven't got on loads of books I'll never get round to reading I decided to make my way to the Stage Door, hopelessly early for the Second Interval. And wait. Feeling a complete and utter total lemon, thinking 'this isn't me, this isn't what I do'.
And then it was obviously Interval time, because of loads of people, mainly but not exclusively, women went into the Stage Door entrance area, so I joined the queue. Feeling even more stupid. Actually feeling really rather uncomfortable. There was a good mix of people, I have to say. I sort of had to laugh at two women behind me muttering and chunnering about "oh look, all the familiar faces at the front of the queue mutter chunner moan moan"
And then he arrived and I was happy. I think everybody else was, too! And I met him and I was delighted. Very delighted. Utterly delighted, in fact.
The only problem I have with meeting celebrities, especially ones that one really admires to an extreme is the fleeting and superficial nature of the encounter. He's someone who puts himself out for his fans because he's a really nice person.
Ultimately unsatisfied by the fleeting superficial nature of the encounter the fan has two options. The first, the one I choose, is to savour the memory of that encounter, and to hope, but not expect, that it will happen again. To continue to admire that person, indeed to increase one's admiration, but based mainly on enjoying their performances, live or recorded, plus the knowledge of them being an exceptionally lovely person, something already known, anyway, prior to the fan-meets-hero encounter.
The other choice is to keep pursuing them, in an increasingly obsessive style. And I could have done that. Armed as I was with info about hotel, car registration number, times of arrival, another appearance at the ROH etc etc. A part of me would have enjoyed that. Another part of me would have loathed myself for doing that. Anyway, one has to ask, what is the ultimate objective of this obsessive pursuit? Friendship? A shag? Ain't going to happen.
And you know, it really wouldn't be a smart move
Women kind of build their shadows around me...Some of them move around with me. I see them in London, Paris, Milan, Vienna... Probably it is very easy to get carried away when they think about the passionate characters that I play. Some write me the story of their lives. They make open declarations that they, er, like me. I can understand. When I am young, I have this big crush on an actress. It is normal, so long as they know it is only in their minds.But some of the fans are unbelievable. They write, 'Today, you don't smile at me. You were angry with me'. Sometimes I have some problems in my head and I don't sign autographs after a concert. They think it is because of them, but it is all in their imagination. Every day in rehearsal I find a pile of letters. I read them, but I never answer them. It would be a story never ending. If these women spent a day with me they would realise it is not fun. I have so much to do, they would get fed up.
On the Wednesday I had a ticket for the wonderful Rigoletto at the Royal Opera House. I had seen it the previous week, and had found that Rolando Villazón had exceeded my very high expectations, and that Dimitri Hvorostovsky had met my fairly high expectations (but confirmed that although I admire him he doesn't quite do it for me...). I had been utterly delighted by Ekaterina Siurina as a most gorgeous Gilda, so I was looking forward immensely to that evening's performance. I knew that my hero himself would be in the Linbury that evening talking to the Wagner Society. Of course I would have loved to have been there, but I was also very pleased with my maturity in that I knew I couldn't, and I was immensely looking forward to that evening's Rigoletto.
I got off the bus on the Strand and walked along, feeling a few raindrops. I realised I was walking past the Savoy. I'd never noticed it before. It was a warm evening, hot even, despite the five raindrops that fell on me, and I needed some water. Not at CG's inflated price but at a more reasonable shop price. There's a corner shop on Bow Street. There's a zebra crossing by the corner shop. I started to cross and realised that I was about to be run over by a car. I just hate it when that happens and I have a range of obscene hand gestures that I instinctively access in such circumstances. I glanced at the car, read the registration number and started trembling. Sadly, it was coming away from the Opera House, or else I would have had a far better story to tell...
Friday. I considered getting to the Opera House by three-thirty, transport disruptions permitting. However, as I explained to Jimmy, I wanted to wait for him to come home before I went out. "Balderdash!" he exclaimed (or something that sounded vaguely like it). "When I got home you were sitting naked, waving around your nails to dry them."
I got to the Stage Door at 3.40 pm and asked someone - who later turned out to be Faye (Hello MrsT) - whether 'anyone interesting had arrived'. "Oh yes," she replied, "Dmitri Hvorostovsky's just popped in; Erik Halfvarson, Antonio Pappano, Lisa Gasteen. Plácido Domingo arrived about ten minutes ago," she added, as an afterthought. She was waiting for Bryn, who had the luxury of arriving later, because he's not in Act I.
During the second interval I thought hard about going down to the Stage Door. I knew he would be there. Everyone knew he'd be there. Indeed, the interval was extended to eighty minutes because so many people were waiting for him (sometimes I think the Royal Opera House are capable of being exceptionally cool). But I didn't go down. To be honest, I was a bit of an emotional wreck having blubbed uncontrollably through most of Act II. Plus, I needed to phone the erstwhile guestbloggers before they set off on holiday - and I ended up getting a blow-by-blow commentary on that evening's televised Prom Second Half.
I did hang around the Stage Door afterwards although I was soon told that Plácido had gone.
On the Monday I briefly considered going early to the Albert Hall, then remembered that Proms have rehearsals in the afternoon, so I didn't (I later learnt that he arrived at 1 pm). I think there were probably hoards of people hanging around - the BBC said the Promming queue started at 8 am. It didn't - the first person arrived at midnight and the stalwarts were there soon after dawn.
I knew he was going to be interviewed on the TV and I briefly considered going up to hang around outside the TV box on the off-chance. But I knew that there would be hundreds, if not thousands, of people there. So I didn't; instead I went outside, had a smoke and a gin, took loads of pictures of the Wagnerian picnickers and the Albert Memorial and chatted to a couple of my local LibDem councillors whom I chancely encountered (I later saw them on TV very near the front of the arena).
At the end of the evening I again found myself at the Stage Door, only to learn that he had gone and that he had been signing autographs in the Grand Tier in the Second Interval.
As I previously posted I almost went to Mitridate on the Sunday but didn't. I subsequently found out that he had been there (Actually, I'd had a premonition). I'm seriously not bothered, but I am going to brief my neplings on how to run a serious guilt trip on my cousin, with whom they'll be staying in a couple of weeks.
Meantime, in the same time period I have been successfully and entirely inadvertently stalking Lord Larry Whitty. I have seen him in the street three times - Great Peter Street (twice) and Marsham Street, in a coffee shop on Horseferry Road, and on a bus from Marsham Street to Pimlico Tube. I smile at him; he smiles at me. I'll say hello the next time.
