Since the Stephen King/Rob Reiner chillfest, Misery (1990), having a “number one fan” is an altogether terrifying prospect. (A number two or three is fine.)
In the film, a novelist, played by James Caan, is rescued from a car accident in a blizzard, by a particularly fat Kathy Bates. Wait, it gets scarier…
It turns out she’s his “number one fan” and has no intention of letting him go. She also lops off his feet with a hammer (don’t click this link if you’re squimish!).
It’s no wonder then that I had cold feet (or any feet at all) when I agreed to meet one of my fans last week. (‘One of’ suggests there are more; ‘one and only’ may be closer to the truth.) She’d read my blog, saw that I’d moved to London and wanted to meet up.
Why the hell not? I thought.
Well, there was one prettyyy big reason why not:
- Kathy Bates.
But anyway, I chose to look beyond the Bates and found instead a very charming, not at all psychotic, PhD student.
And it got me thinking, perhaps prematurely, about the notion of fame (and the fifteen minutes of it promised us by Andy Warhol). I realise that it hasn’t yet touched me in the same way that it did, say, Princess Diana, but it has sort of tickled me on the nose.
The PhD student knew only a persona, pixelated and preserved on this blog; a “true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male.”
And while one fan does not a fan club make, I imagine it’s just a matter of time before I’m shaving my head and checking into rehab, dangling a baby over a balcony ledge, or dying in a high speed car chase in Paris.
That’s a lot to cram into my fifteen minutes.