Rob Gilroy: Making A Stand #28

They say ‘never meet your heroes’ and I can sympathise with that. Imagine bumping into Spider-Man in Starbucks.

Yes, he may be your friendly neighbourhood arachnid, but it’s hardly a vote of confidence if he’s too busy necking his caramel latte to hold the door open for you.

I’ve been very fortunate in that I’ve met quite a few of my heroes. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I once saw Dara O’Briain at a urinal.

I didn’t speak to him mind, there’s never a good time to tap someone on the shoulder, mid-flow. However, the problem with meeting heroes is; it’s not always plane sailing (do planes sail?)

I start off with the best intentions – thinking to myself; “Oh yeah, TV’s Duncan Bannatyne would love it if I called him ‘The Duncster’, he’d think it was brilliant.

We’d be mates for life and anytime he was feeling down, due to a particularly poor day at the den, he’d call me up and we’d hit a club. Yeah; me and the Duncster.”

At least, that’s what was in my head up until the moment I met Duncan Bannatyne – then I became a jibbering wreck, rudely demanding to know why he was at Darlington train station.

Any of the well-prepared jokes or the killer anecdotes I’d been storing up; melted away into a bleak, hot fog of confusion. Like an amnesia victim going speed dating.

That’s one of the interesting things about performing comedy; in particular on the stand up circuit – you never know how close you are to meeting one of your heroes.

You might think you’re on your way to any old gig in the upstairs room of the White Elk, Nantwich, but suddenly someone who’s been making you laugh for years, strolls in and demands to know which idiot in the teal-coloured Vauxhall has parked across two disabled parking bays.

It takes a few seconds to adjust to seeing them up close. Then you have to nip out and move your Vectra before you pluck up the courage to speak to them.

One of the places where this sort of occurrence happens a lot is at the Fringe.

During the festival comedians are like rats – you’re never more than a few feet away from them, and most are carrying some sort of bacterial disease.

It’s amazing how little time you’re there before you become a sort of Heat-magazine version of David Attenborough. Your eyes are darting round every few seconds – was that Richard Herring? No, it’s a tramp. Was that Stewart Lee? No, it’s just Mark Kermode.

You end up like the kid in the Sixth Sense, only more star-stuck.

The number of hours I’ve stood in the Pleasance Courtyard, feet glued to the floor with sweat and terror, looking at the back of Al Murray’s head, trying to pluck up the courage to speak to him are too numerous to mention. But it’s definitely in the teens.

A few years ago I was incredibly fortunate to meet the late, and utterly brilliant, Felix Dexter.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this meeting, over the last few days. It’s one of those very rare occasions where meeting your hero goes above and beyond what you could expect.

For a start I didn’t demand to know why he was at Darlington train station, partly due to the fact that he wasn’t.

It was my first time bringing a show to the Fringe, and I was still incredibly naïve about the whole thing.

On my first day I’d spent an hour watching a traffic accident unfold, believing it to be some sort of outdoor performance.

You’re trying to get your head round putting on a show every day, whilst coping with the fact that Eddie Izzard just walked past you and Giles Brandreth tried to nick your kebab.

I’d recently rediscovered my love of Felix on the show Bellamy’s People – an incredible exercise in pitch-perfect character comedy. He had an incredible ability to be utterly engaging and hilariously funny.

I had noticed Dexter had brought a show up to the festival and I was desperate to see it. However, I had ploughed what little money I had left from my student loan into putting on the show, leaving me with very little free cash.

Myself and Lucy, my girlfriend, were living solely on a diet of bread and jam. We couldn’t even afford a knife – we spread the jam with an old library card.

One night across the busy Pleasance courtyard – there purely as a spectator – I spotted him: Felix Dexter. My legs turned to jelly; I steadied myself on Al Murray who was, thankfully, close by. After some minutes of nervous deliberation; I approached him.

Forsaking the prompt cards I’d prepared for such an occasion, I awkwardly told him how brilliant he was and how much I’d enjoyed Bellamy’s People.

He graciously thanked me, asked how I was enjoying the festival and so followed a five minute conversation. We discussed character comedy and playing multiple characters.

He gave me tips, asked for a flyer for my show and wished me all the best with it. As we both turned to leave, I felt him grab my arm.

“Did you come to the show?” he asked. I considered saying yes, to avoid showing him a jammy piece of I.D, but I didn’t. I said I was hoping to catch it at some point.

“Come tomorrow night” he said, “Paul Whitehouse is going to be there, it should be good fun.”

He told me he’d put my name on the door and with that he was gone. Not in a puff of smoke, in a taxi.

The next day, as promised, I had a free ticket waiting for me at the box office and that night I saw his show; ‘Multiple Personalities In Order’.

It was a brilliant show, a mixture of stand up and character comedy, seamlessly interwoven by this incredibly charismatic man. I was blown away by it.

Every time I’m writing new material or a new character; I think back to that show and how effortless it seemed. It’s exactly what I strive for.

As for Paul Whitehouse? Well, two rows down sat one half of the Self-Righteous Brothers. You can keep your pissing Irish men and your commuting Dragons, this was hero top trumps – two of Bellamy’s People.

After the show I thanked Dexter for the ticket and told him how much I’d loved the show. He thanked me for coming – me! As if I was the one doing him a favour! – and wished me all the best for my show. Then I left him to chat with Paul, as his mates call him.

The number of tributes to Felix Dexter and the outpouring of grief from the comedy community have been truly astonishing.

It’s testament to a man who was not only incredibly funny and bursting with talent, but also extremely gracious and generous.

I will always hold that brief meeting as my one successful attempt to meet a hero.

Not because I sat near Rowley Birkin QC, not because I got to see a Fringe show for free, but because Felix Deter gave me – a little comedy wannabe with a library card covered in preserve – the time of day.

Felix Dexter was, genuinely, one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met. And I’ve met Duncan Bannatyne.