IF I had ever done anything remotely interesting to the rest of the world I would definitely have penned an autobiography to clog up the bookshelves — and I know what I would have called it.
It would have ended up as one of those titles aimed at coercing gullible potential book buyers to part with their hard-earned, leaving them disappointed that the contents didn’t really live up to the name. Autobiographies are generally written by those whose dreams came true. That didn’t happen for me, but does anyone ever really achieve their dream and even if they believe they have is it everything they thought it would be?
A footballer, a rock star, a prince, princess, king, Queen, astronaut, are all common answers to the question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Very few of us manage any of these and for those that do the novelty probably wears off pretty quickly.
The money, the adulation, is all great at first, but after it’s all over and you’re no longer at the top of your game, bought everything you ever thought you wanted, you’re left with the same emptiness experienced by everyone else multiplied by infinity. Plus, of course, a pot full of cash.
Did David Beckham ever wish his dream hadn’t come true? He certainly did when he started to appear on the front pages for everything other than football. Did Prince Charles ever regret having his dream presented to him on a huge silver salver with a silver spoon in his mouth? He certainly did when... well, you get the picture.
Below that level most of us have aims rather than dreams, and journalism, as well as reporting on village fetes, dogs shows and fruit and vegetable growing competitions, typing up sports results, attending meetings and writing up cheque presentations does, on occasion, should you have achieved your aim of becoming a reporter, allow you to meet and interview those whose dreams have come true.
I can list — and have done so before —various pop and rock stars, politicians, actors, artists and royalty who I have had the pleasure and, on occasion, displeasure to meet. Some have experienced startling falls from grace, a number moved on to greater things, others just disappeared from view.I have often wondered what happened to those who didn’t make it.
The famous whose stars plummeted to earth with the most shattering jolt were Michael Jackson, Jimmy Savile and Stuart Hall.
Wacko was simply a brush off as I asked him a question, Hall was on the same table as me at some charity do and appeared as slimy as his soon to be revealed crimes confirmed him to be, while Savile I didn’t exactly meet in spite of a valiant attempt as a child.
I had written to Jim’ll Fix It in the hope of my not-yet-formed five-a-side team being given the opportunity of taking on Leeds United and was horrified to find I had been beaten to it by a Manchester United fan (ain’t it always the way?) whose side of glory-hunting kids drew 3-3 with an under-performing Red Devils outfit clearly only used to games played with the full complement of players.
It would be 20 years before Savile sped by on a road outside Whitby, his Rolls Royce hitting the puddle, the resulting splash leaving me sodden and angry, raising a middle finger in his direction.
It gave me an idea for the title of my autobiography, should I ever achieve my dream of making it in any form of life that warrants me writing one. It’s a good job I didn’t.