My weekend with Danny

My good lady friend Saskia once asked me: ‘What’s the protocol for meeting a film star? Are you supposed to say that you’ve seen all of their films, or should you play it cool and pretend you’re not obsessed with them?’

A month ago, I would have said that being indifferent and aloof would have been my approach, but after I met my fantasy boyfriend, Danny Dyer, it’s safe to say I made a bit of a tit of myself.

Doormouse has a friend who ‘works in PR’ and he was arranging all the celeb parties for the Gumball Rally, which is some charity event where lots of famous people and boys with too much money drive flash cars all around Europe.

Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan, Danny’s co-star in The Business and other geezer-type films, were taking part and the friend of Doormouse knew we would have killed him if we’d missed our opportunity to strike. So, we got tickets to the pre-party champagne reception on the Friday night.

We met after work and sinked a bottle of wine before even considering turning up. We were supposed to be on the list, so Doormouse assured me we’d get in.

After arriving and being the only people not to get papped by the waiting photographers, we were actually allowed in. The free champagne was flowing and still no one asked us to leave, so we got as drunk as we could, while hob-nobbing with the semi-famous people.

Richard Blackwood was DJing, so we spent the first part of the evening telling him he had lousy musical tastes and that he should really play the stuff we wanted, seeing as we were the best dancers there.

Upon returning to our smokers’ corner after one of these little chats, I found that Doormouse was no longer waiting for me and was in fact playing a game of tennis in a Nintendo Wii with Danny Dyer. Yep, he’d only gone and introduced himself. It turned out that rather than be invited to play a game, Doormouse had spotted a child playing against Mr Dyer, pushed him off and resumed the controls himself.

Not to be outdone, I rushed over, applauded and screamed like a girl and introduced myself. I had a go on the Wii and somehow actually managed to beat Danny Dyer. Once the game was over, we thought it best to start telling him just how much we loved.

Doormouse: I love you Danny Dyer.
Me: Don’t listen to that cunt, Danny Dyer, I love you more.
Danny Dyer: Did you two see that article I did in Attitude magazine?
Doortmouse: See it, Danny Dyer? I masturbate to it every day.

This non-stop harassment of Danny Dyer lasted for a while and it ended when he sloped off, not before hugging us both and saying: ‘I love you two, you pair of cunts.’

It couldn’t have got any better.

Until Tamer Hassan announced that the charity auction was about to start. He took the mic off Richard Blackwood and began his speech, all the while being heckled by me and Doormouse.

Tamer Hassan: OK, I have a pair of fucking irons behind me and they say that they love Danny fucking Dyer.
Me: Ooh, Tamer, I love you more.
Tamer Hassan: Hold on everyone.
(Tamer Hassan hands me the mic)
Me (to the room full of celebs, gangsters and their molls): I am ALL about the Tamer Hassan.
(Applause)

When the auction ended, Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan snuck off without exchanging numbers with us, but two of the boys from disgraced pop group Big Brovaz were still there, so we had a quick chat with them.

Me (to one of the boys): I see your miserable mate has still got his shades in indoors. What’s that about?
Doormouse (to same boy): You were robbed at Eurovision. I loved that song. What was it again?

They made a hasty retreat and the evening ended for us when Doormouse passed out in the toilets, smacked his head against the sink and was found by a bouncer. He was taken to a ‘quiet’ room out the back and when he came to, while I was apologising profusely, he started screaming: ‘Where’s Danny Dyer?’

Yes, they removed us from the party. And by ‘removed’, I do of course mean we were thrown out the back door and into the bins in the street. I’m just glad Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan had left by that point.

We had a drunken argument in the street about which direction Marble Arch was in (I was right), Doormouse went one way and I popped into Trash Palace to have a bop on my own, and had a dance with some sad bastard in a crop top.

The next day was full of reminiscing telephone conversations and we felt that the press passes we had for the actual party that night would not provide us with nearly as much fun.

For the real bash, we took Snow with us and the three of us breezed in past the hoy polloy as they waited in the street and we were ushered into the press enclosure. Our guide for the evening showed us to the VIP area where we spied Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan. We thought they would do their very best to ignore us, but…

Tamer Hassan: Oi, oi, it’s the fucking irons.
Doormouse and me in unison: Cooee!

Danny Dyer bowled over, hugged us both and called us both babe. He put his hand out to shake mine, but I threw my arms round his neck and said: ‘It’s so good to see you again, Danny Dyer.’

Then Tamer called over and said to Doormouse: ‘Do you still wanna do that line of gear of my cock?’

Turns out that the night before, Doormouse had bumped into Tamer Hassan at the bar and told him that he would like to do that specific action. It was all so delicious and Snow was quite gutted she had missed the Friday night party.

I had always thought that if I were ever to meet Danny Dyer, my fantasies would be crushed because he would turn out to be a right miserable bastard and would have no time for us.

It turns out that on top of having more sex appeal than any man I have ever met – seriously, it oozes from his every pore; he reeks of sex – he is also the nicest. All my fantasies have now magnified and the main feeling I was left with was disappointment that I wouldn’t be spending every weekend in his company.

So, in answer to Saskia’s question, the best way to handle meeting a film star you dream about is to launch yourself at them and tell them how much you love them. They’ll probably love it.


DISCLAIMER: This post was written in my lunch break.