“I pissed next to Wolverine once.”
I make no particular effort to avoid the public. They’re friendly, they just want to chat, take a selfie, get an autograph, they’re no trouble. Except, just occassionally, someone will talk to you from the urinal next to yours while you’re having a piss.
“Wolverine?”
“You know, Hugh Jackman, the actor.”
I didn’t reply immediately, I was focussing on my urine. Focus is everything in urine as it is in darts, I’ve seen Michael van Gerwen win a game with a 127.34 average, eighteen 180s, four ton-plus finishes, then come out of the toilets with a damp patch on his trousers where he’s let his focus slip.
“Really, Hugh Jackman.”
“Yeah, this was at some West End do,” the man talked in a seamless rapid flow, like his urine. “Sting was there as well, but I think he used the VIP toilets.”
I said nothing, concentrating on my final spurt. It’s the most important part, like the double in darts, the bit where you can lose games you always looked like winning.
“My girlfirend works in PR. I get to see all the great and good. I’ve also pissed next to Phill Jupitus. Twice. Once at Glastonbury and once at the Royal Albert Hall.”
“Phill Jupitus pissing at the Royal Albert Hall,” I said. “Would you know it.”
The man pissed off once he’d finished, didn’t stop to wash his hands. At least he didn’t try to shake mine.
This is who you are if you’re a celebrity, if I can call myself that, you’re the three seconds of starlight in the deep, dark black hole of ordinary people’s lives. I am the stray arrow of glamour in an otherwise glamour-free existence.
“I pissed next to Bob Croucher once,” he’ll tell his friends, “You know, the darts player,” thus have I joined the ranks of Wolverine and Phil Jupitus.
I am the star of many such an anecdote, I am the Bob Croucher that cabbies had in the back of their cabs, I am the Bob Croucher seen eating a kebab in the middle of the night in the middle of Manchester, the Bob Croucher seen returning a faulty kettle to Homebase, I’m even the Bob Croucher seen outside the tanning salon in City Airport, explaining, over a mobile phone with a dodgy line, how to milk a sheep (It’s easy really, just like milking a goat).
Back in the dressing room, ablutions complete, I rub my hands with chalk, the final part of my preparation before strutting out on stage. I always tell myself that I do this for the grip, to avoid damp, sweaty, sticky hands, but I know I’m telling myself a lie. It’s psychological, one of my pre-match tics, like my pre-match piss, necessary but unnecessary.
Phill Jupitus.
Come to think of it I once pissed next to Phill Jupitus at Glastonbury.