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.

The Fame Meme

Long ago – certainly before I hit 22 – I lost the desire to be famous. This may have something to do with my narrowly failed attempt to become the sidekick to Nobby The Sheep on a TV show called Ghost Train. Just as many alcoholics have a moment of cold moment of sober realisation allowing them to realise the destructive arc of their addiction, being down to the last few candidates hoping to be partnered with a rubber ram sporting a green mohican and a BLJ, I understood just how fucked up the fame meme is. Even though I told myself that I wanted to be known so that I could further my own creative projects, I had been possessed by the idea that any level of public recognition equated to success. This is of course bollocks. Being the associate of TV puppet could only be defined as an achievement if your previous occupation was as career street drinker.

The ridiculous, adolescent need to be recognised eventually gave way to the equally ludicrous suggestion that I wanted to be known as good writer. The excuse I offered myself for such egotism was that being well-known would mean I could achieve a bigger readership. Of course, what I should have been concentrating on is just being an author, getting on with the business of trying to express information, stories, ideas or feelings with clarity and originality.

It was that realisation that played a big part in my decision to radically reduce the sort of meejah horing I did when my first book came out. When you find yourself hawking your wares on radio stations alongside the likes of Belinda Carlisle you know something is wrong. However to an agent it is only another sign of my: “Constant failure to be careerist.”

Due to the sometime strange trajectory of my life, I have been through periods where I could not enjoy a meal in a Soho curry house without someone asking if I was: “That bloke off of Sky News”. This is not a good thing and it certainly not a valuable measure of success. These days I would define success as writing each book a bit better than the last, communicating something worthwhile to an audience and paying the bills. I will be a meejah hor if I absolutely have to get a book out, but at least it will be done without a preposterous craving any shade of fame.