Jude Law
London is one of those cities where you can walk a few yards and flow across a divide of money, security and class so deep it would take generations or several violent revolutions to cross any other way. By bon chance, I am an oik who for the next few months at least, is sharing space and views with Russian oligarchs. Yet within seconds I can exchange tranquillity and beauty for a carpet of crushed glass and a soundtrack of K’nann.
Nothing illustrates this better for me than my choice of where to get the papers from on a Sunday morning. With several newsagents equidistant from where I live, I can choose to walk through a council estate or flit up Victorian mews. On one journey I may meet a former child soldier from Somalia, the other Sienna Miller giving an exaggerated performance of being trying to be unobtrusive while waiting on her driver.
My own unwanted brushes with recognition, ennui at the whole notion of celebrity and a very English sense that it is rude to bother someone you do not know while there are about their own business means I would never dream of stopping any of my recognisable neighbours. Even the huge Who geek in me has not been enough to make me ask Billy Piper for an autograph when I have twice bumped into her as she took a Sunday canalside walk. Twist will rage at me for ‘wasted opportunities’ when he reads this, but I would hate to be bothered on my patch. Therefore I use that as my guiding principle when seeing the likes of Louis Theroux or Milos Forman by the water. Their fame and my admiration for their work does not give me a right to talk at them uninvited.
Today I saw Jude Law. Beyond the second or two of starring as I tried to work out where I knew his face from, I ignored him. Feeding the ducks is much more absorbing than watching an actor walking with his child. I paid only paid attention in the first place because seeing a man clearly enjoying the company of his son always gives me a moment glowing joy. It is one of those sights which make the world seem like a good place before regret over not being able to remember my father being like that with me intrudes.
A few hours later I heard that Law had been arrested that afternoon for an attack on a photographer. Allegedly he tried to grab the paparazzi’s camera, shouting only a paedophile would want to take pictures of his children. Whatever happened, it was enough for Law to be arrested on suspicion of actual bodily harm and bailed to return to the police station in October. Bizarrely, despite my years as a journalist, I feel immense empathy for Law. Yes you do give up some of your expectations of privacy when your work makes you a recognized face, but you never give up your right as a parent to defend your children.
Nothing illustrates this better for me than my choice of where to get the papers from on a Sunday morning. With several newsagents equidistant from where I live, I can choose to walk through a council estate or flit up Victorian mews. On one journey I may meet a former child soldier from Somalia, the other Sienna Miller giving an exaggerated performance of being trying to be unobtrusive while waiting on her driver.
My own unwanted brushes with recognition, ennui at the whole notion of celebrity and a very English sense that it is rude to bother someone you do not know while there are about their own business means I would never dream of stopping any of my recognisable neighbours. Even the huge Who geek in me has not been enough to make me ask Billy Piper for an autograph when I have twice bumped into her as she took a Sunday canalside walk. Twist will rage at me for ‘wasted opportunities’ when he reads this, but I would hate to be bothered on my patch. Therefore I use that as my guiding principle when seeing the likes of Louis Theroux or Milos Forman by the water. Their fame and my admiration for their work does not give me a right to talk at them uninvited.
Today I saw Jude Law. Beyond the second or two of starring as I tried to work out where I knew his face from, I ignored him. Feeding the ducks is much more absorbing than watching an actor walking with his child. I paid only paid attention in the first place because seeing a man clearly enjoying the company of his son always gives me a moment glowing joy. It is one of those sights which make the world seem like a good place before regret over not being able to remember my father being like that with me intrudes.
A few hours later I heard that Law had been arrested that afternoon for an attack on a photographer. Allegedly he tried to grab the paparazzi’s camera, shouting only a paedophile would want to take pictures of his children. Whatever happened, it was enough for Law to be arrested on suspicion of actual bodily harm and bailed to return to the police station in October. Bizarrely, despite my years as a journalist, I feel immense empathy for Law. Yes you do give up some of your expectations of privacy when your work makes you a recognized face, but you never give up your right as a parent to defend your children.
Labels: Fame, London, My patch, Sean Twist
posted by David at
11:59 AM
13 Comments:
I lived in Notting Hill for 9 years, so I used to see a lot of celebrities going about their business. The only one I lost my breath over was Nick Cave. I would have licked his boots if he had let me. But he'll never know.
I once saw Nick and his daughter shuffling through books on the South Bank. Now I deeply love Nick Cave, but me being able to recite every word of Murder Ballads is not an excuse for me to interrupt him as much I wanted to.
At least your sightings are more interesting than here. If i'm lucky, i see groups of sweaty and disshevelled immigrant workers coming home after a truly long day's work with hardly a minimum wage between them. I guess you could say i'm experiencing life as it truly is for 99% of the population. Although once i did see Alice Cooper with 8 youngsters waiting to go into a movie theatre. He looked happy but overwhelmed.
Once Michael Keaton was in Crested Butte, Colorado after making his Batman movie. He was walking down the street when a business sign fell on his head and knocked him out. He woke up to a Butian looking at him saying "Hey, dude, it's Batman."
Everyone deserves their privacy.
Yeah, I agree you have to feel empathy for the bloke.
I used to feel an attack of Tourrettes coming on when I would see John Cleese in Holland Park in the days when he was funny and when James Hunt was walking his Alsatian on Wimbledon Common,(I'd be walking my Doberman if you're wondering lol) but I managed to control myself and act all nonchalant, respecting their space. One weekend on Clapham Common, my young daughters recognized Bob Geldof enjoying the company of his girls when they were much younger than they are today. Being as bold as brass, mine ran towards him shouting for his autograph, leaving me behind looking for a hole to crawl into, sans pen or paper. To be fair to the G8 puppet he obliged, but gave me a look that clearly said I was taking a bleeding liberty and I couldn't blame him really. :-)
More evidence that I live in wrong London, where my legendary Canadian politeness (thanks be to Mother England) is wasted amongst my ordinary fellow travelers. But seeing Billie Piper would test my resolve, I fear.
Sometimes it pays to be a bloody nuisance though. Bruce House in Covent Garden, a hostel for the homeless (now closed) held 700, many were ex-servicemen.
Just round the corner in the Piazza, Janet Street-Porter was interviewing John Lydon (Sex Pistols) for LWT(London Weekend Television).
For some reason I can't recall, I'd lent them a record turntable for the duration of the interview. Ten minutes into filming, a resident of Bruce House appeared and proceeded to get into shot. As the intruder seemed deaf to appeals to get out of the way, one of the crew slipped him a fiver with the proviso that he go away.
All went well for another ten minutes of filming, when suddenly a great mob from Bruce House arrived, all with their hands out for a fiver.
In all the excitement, Lydon managed to break my turntable for which I received no recompense, not even a five pound note.
Billie Piper! Ah, my heart...gasp! Thud!
Yeah, well, I saw Herman Gooden the other day, and I didn't talk to him, either. See? I gots class.
We do live in odd times when someone gets in trouble for defending their own children, who have no defense of their own.
I could not even imagine trying to parent a child with so many cameras and judgments and attentions. I too would go to jail, I'm sure.
CL - I am honoured by your noble, gentlemanly presence. You, unlike Kid Dork, have the Canadian politeness to not bitch and moan when you come to London Rex and refrain from telling me how dirty, expensive and awful it is.
33 – You are now the official Tommy Saxondale of this blog. Revel in it and do not worry – I love a good John Lydon story. However, this does not mean I will publish comments on the Ford Mustang Mach 1 or engine blocks.
Nina – I agree. Issues like this which highlight the uneven protection offered between abused and abuser bring the whole body of law into disrepute.
Cindra – I think I would be in jail with you. No one would harass my children without repercussion.
Thanks David for your delightful comment re Lydon & Saxondale. I'm chuffed.
As for talk of Ford bread vans and their bits- I've always been a Chevy man meself having learned to drive in one under the watchful eye of my PE teacher in high school. (PE teachers always had to teach Driver Ed and Sex Education classes in those days.)
My best friend at the time was a young preacher with a bedroom full of drag racing trophies, won with his Galaxie. Every time we went to a party he'd end up fisticuffing with Chevy or Mopar drivers who'd demanded to see what he had under the hood. So I can understand why you'd be reluctant to publish engine block trivia and suchlike.
I know what you mean! Whenever I see a celebrity there's that split second of recognition on my part of knowing the person, but not immediately connected to why I know them
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