Never meet your heroes

Why meeting my favourite comedian was nothing like I thought it would be

I am a very passionate fan. 

When I love something, I really go ALL in – hence 24 Beyoncé concerts (and counting), seeing Wicked on stage eight times (so far) and yes, going to see James Acaster’s tour not once, but twice, this past weekend.

(If you don’t know him, or if you’re not a fan, read this story with your favourite comic in mind – it’ll hopefully ring true)

James Acaster is, for my money, the funniest and smartest person performing comedy today. His humour is my very favourite kind – it punches up at those in power rather than punching down at the vulnerable. Even further than that, he champions the marginalised in his sets without it sounding forced or at all disingenuous. He’s remarkably clever and astute in the way he weaves his stories together. Full 360 moments jump out at you unexpectedly from the wings, where he tricks you into thinking he’s left them. His unpredictability is endearing, his quirks endlessly charming. I could recite his Netflix specials from memory and fervently push the like button on any Acaster-related meme, of which there are many.

He is, indeed, my favourite.

Something relevant about Acaster is that his current tour, and a recorded special he made during Covid called Cold Lasagne Hate Myself 1999, both focus on the fact that he’s uncomfortable with the spotlight, and doesn’t actually particularly like performing stand-up. He deleted all social media back in 2019 and hasn’t returned, and frequently talks about how he struggles with anxiety and sees a therapist.

This information is about to become pertinent, as I tell you exactly why I regret having met him.

Seeing his tour, Hecklers Welcome, in Vicar Street on Saturday night was one of those nights where I actually thought to myself, if I laugh any more, I will throw up. It was that good. I had tears streaming down my face from laughter, and had bonded over that laughter with several people in my immediate surroundings (I was front row, almost accidentally, as my husband bought the tickets for us for our wedding anniversary). I had an intense ache in my jaw from smiling. I’m fairly certain my laughter was drawing attention, even at a comedy gig where that’s the purpose of the event.

Afterwards, my husband and I loitered outside for a bit on the off-chance we’d catch him leaving. We didn’t – I left happy, but there was a part of me that wished I’d been able to meet him, just so that I could tell him that his comedy brightens my days and that I think he’s brilliant.

But I knew there was hope – I was going again on Monday with my pal Andrea.

The show, second time around, was just as good. I could relax into it more, hear the nuances of the jokes I’d missed in the first viewing, and commit some of my favourites to memory. As the show wrapped up, Andrea and I, having befriended a staff member (who we will not name lest they get in trouble for giving out information) knew that James would be leaving to hop into an awaiting taxi shortly thereafter, and we knew by which door he’d be making his exit.

As it was absolutely pissing rain, most of the show attendees had left. Andrea and I tucked ourselves into a doorway nearby, within view of the venue, and waited. And we waited. And we waited.

Had we the bladders of teens, we may have stuck it out longer. But neither of us have the pelvic floors of our youth, so we decided to leave. Back in my car, I told Andrea I just wanted to drive past the venue once, just to see. Just on the off-chance. 

So we did.

And just as we pulled up outside, across the road, in the lashing rain, James Acaster emerged from the side door. Instinct took hold. I grabbed my phone, and to choruses of ‘go, go, go!’ from Andrea, I ran across the road to catch him just before he got into his taxi.

As he was ushered toward the waiting car, he walked with a slight shrug across his shoulders, glancing side to side in his trademark way. He looked exactly like I thought he’d look. Pretty much exactly like he does on stage; slacks, a t-shirt, a jacket with pockets and larger than necessary loops in his lace-up Vans. This time he carried a dark green Rains roll-top backpack on his back. He was with two people – a tall man with thin-rimmed round glasses and a kind of… hipster Snape (?) look about him (maybe a manager) and a woman with blonde wavy hair.

I approached him gently.

Something told me I needed to be gentle. I had planned to say “James, I’m a big fan, the show was brilliant, thank you for your comedy”. 

What actually came out was me shout-whispering “James!” and he turned around, almost startled. I told him I’m a huge fan – he thanked me for coming to see him. I mumbled something else, and asked for a picture. 

He couldn’t have been nicer – he was literally one foot into this taxi and had handed his pal his backpack, but still stopped and posed for a picture with me. He said “thanks for coming to the show” again, and as he closed the door of the taxi, I just blurted out “YOU’RE MY FAVOURITE!” like an unhinged toddler hopped up on sugar, meeting JJ from Cocomelon. The man looked nothing short of relieved as he pulled away.

So, that was me well and truly mortified, but that wasn’t the part that troubled me.

I got back to the car and was shaking with the adrenaline surge. I had just met one of my heroes, and I was shook. I was somewhere between smiling and laughing and frowning and crying. My hands gripped the steering wheel and I tried to explain to Andrea how I was feeling.

“I feel absolutely AWFUL,” I said.

Andrea asked me why. She was, understandably, confused – I had met my comic hero. I tried to explain my angst.

The whole interaction with Acaster lasted, I would estimate, 30 seconds. But from the moment he clocked eyes on me, I could tell he was uncomfortable with the attention. He clearly just wanted to leave the venue, get into the car, and head off for the night. To go back to being James from Kettering, rather than James Acaster, celebrity. He seemed nervous, even. I guess there is something different about facing someone, off duty, in the street, versus playing to a 1,500-strong audience with tightly scripted comedic material. One is planned and somewhat detached, the other is impromptu and very much face to face.

By the time he saw me, phone in hand, we both knew it was too late – I had waited there to meet him, and he, unfortunately, was the famous comedian. I couldn’t back out, he couldn’t be rude.

And as I said, he was so beyond polite, but also incredibly shy. He thanked me, twice, for coming to the show, and I was polite too of course, asking if it was okay to take the picture. But in that moment, and the moments afterward, it felt like I had dragged him by the hair out of the taxi, thrown his Rains bag in a puddle, punched his tall mate and made him smile for the selfie thereafter.

I felt guilty for wanting a picture – was meeting him and telling him he’s great not enough for me? Who was I taking the picture for, strangers on the internet? I really felt such a deflation – I should have just left on a high, never needing to meet the person who makes me laugh so much.

I gifted myself platitudes, of course; ‘you miss 100% of the chances you don’t take’ and so on. I told myself he might’ve appreciated the niceties. I voice noted Andrea, frantically and in mild crisis, and she tried to talk me down, telling me I didn’t ruin his night and that he’s probably used to people adoring him. I wasn’t so sure, but it helped to hear.

I’m not going to say I regret going up to say hello to him. He was lovely. But was it worth this yucky feeling I’m having now? I don’t know. 

Never meet your heroes, you guys. Because then you have to face the fact that they’re not lying about their anxiety issues and reluctant fame. And you may well end up feeling like an intrusive arsehole.

A.

PS: Thanks for reading this. There’s something special from *THE* Marian Keyes coming this Thursday for all paid subscribers.