Being a celebrity is just pants

Inspirational? Lacking in bitterness? My new stalker clearly doesn’t know me at all, says Paul Carter

Backlashers, I’ve finally made it as a bona fide celebrity. Yep, it’s true. Unfortunately, my new-found fame hasn’t come as a result of my witless ramblings on these here pages (not yet anyway), but rather from my seemingly so far undiscovered skills as a motivator of men. Old men to be completely precise.

What am I waffling about, you ask? Well, I now have my very own stalker.

The stalker – international sign that a person has achieved the rank of celebrity.

Everyone who’s anyone has one these days. Even the Pope. Probably.

You’re nobody until you have a weirdo sifting through your bins, hiding in the bushes and nicking your pants off the washing line. None of these things have actually happened to me (yet), mainly because not even the most unhinged stalkers would want my pants, but my experience is still a bit weird as sadly my stalker is of the unwelcome variety.

I mean, if my stalker looked like Abbey Clancy or was a lonely pole-dancer who followed me mooching around the dairy section of Tesco a couple of times a week, then I think I could probably cope with the attention. However, none of these things happen to me, as mine is called Brian. Yes. He is called Brian.

I don’t know what Brian looks like. I have never met Brian. Not knowingly, anyway. I inspired Brian on a bus, apparently. I inspired everyone on the bus, apparently. I know this because Brian wrote me a letter to tell me. Brian brought this letter to where I work.

Yes, you did read that last bit correctly – Brian’s handwritten letter of admiration (which is now pinned up in front of me like a trophy moose head) was hand-delivered to reception, here at the ivory towers of Disability Now.

Walking the streets around here usually requires a squad of six Ghurkas as security, so not only was this act incredibly brave, but it was also rather creepy, as I’ve no idea how my new admirer found me.

I don’t remember anyone getting off the bus when I did, which implies he must have got off at the next stop and ran back, Chariots of Fire-style, just in time to see me fleetingly, tragically, yet majestically, disappearing through the doors into our building. That’s how I like to imagine it, anyway.

I’m probably being a bit unfair on Brian. His note was actually quite sweet in a slightly strange kind of way. It wasn’t even written in green ink, and I’m not that freaked out by it, as it says that I “did not seem bitter or to be seeking sympathy”, so he clearly doesn’t know me that well.

If it said, “You seem to be someone who has an unhealthy fondness for warm lager, Pot Noodles and don’t particularly seem to like the general public,” then I’d be a lot more worried.

I have been employing counter-surveillance techniques in the mornings, though, just in case. I’d better not tell you what they are. After all, you never know who might be reading. Isn’t that right, Brian?