HERE FOLLOWS AN ACCOUNT OF SOMETHING INTERESTING THAT, UNLIKE A LOT OF MY STORIES, ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
IT WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN SEREN, AUTUMN 2006.
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Last Night I Slept At Gruff Rhys-Jones’ House
There are lots of people here, chatting and drinking and dancing. It’s a club, I reason, and therefore this is to be expected. I am one such person, merrily engaged in lively discourse with other sweaty gig goers. One is called Catherine, or ‘Catch’ if you know her well, like I don’t. Her and her friends are charming and engaging, making their invitation for us all to spill onto the streets together a welcome one. Our mischief made, we do indeed spill. I, and my friends, hear stories from our new friends about how London’s Centre Point (a tall building and short fountain) is a magnet for, of all things, human faeces. Sensing danger in such a location, we high tail it to the nearest Prêt a Manger, because apparently such establishments are open at this hour. What time is it? We missed the last train. I hear an invitation to retire to Catch’s house for tea and biscuits, all though I never partake in at least one of those things (I believe feverishly in the power of disclaimers, and so I state that this invitation was not offered as a prelude to nudity. London is sexy, but not that sexy). Given our current situation and joyous bonhomie with these colourful characters, we accept.
Something strikes me as we enter the house. Something doesn’t sit right. Some sandwich? Oh, thanks. I note the kitchen is bigger than my house. I also note the table football table, with great, possibly too much, interest. Jokes are exchanged and a Good Time had. This strong will to engage is what I love most about socialising with strangers who you clearly have, although none of you are really sure of it yet, a lot in common with. When the dawn’s first light comes a’crawlin’ through the tall windows, our exuberance makes way for sleepiness. Fully prepped of our sleeping arrangements (down the stairs, first door on the left, between the gym and sauna), myself and faithful friend Adam take our weary heads away. Only then do I resolve my misgivings, and make the connection. The photos on the bathroom wall. The library of classics. The ukulele. The surname! I’m in Gruff Rhys-Jones’ house. Is he here? What do I say? I’m not presentable! He’s in Copenhagen? Probably for the best. After my last star struck moment with Mark Little at a cinema urinal, I don’t think I’m ready for a Gruff moment just yet. This would be weird if it wasn’t my birthday.
This is not a problem. There is no animosity between me and Gruff. Not yet. Buoyed by this discovery, we proceed to find the master of the house’s underwear, slippers, and pinball machine (Another disclaimer: the underwear was by accident). Excitement. Sleep.
The following morn is a funny one. It appears we are alone in the house. Where are our hostesses? They said they had things to do, but would they leave us to our own devices? Struggling to cope with the emotional weight of being in the house of the host of Restoration, the funny one out of Smith and Jones, I inadvertently set off one of the house’s many alarms. I panic. Adam remains infuriatingly placid. The ying to my yang. The Ernie to my Bert. The phone rings. There is a knock at the door. I start jabbering, in hindsight, quite comically. How will it look if the police come bursting in to find two dishevelled students, alone in Gruff Rhys-Jones’ house, wearing his fluffiest footwear? Felons they will cry! Visions of a night in Wormwood Scrubs bartering for my life with cigarettes cloud my judgement. Adam moves to the first floor lounge window. Knowing a sniper situation when I see one, I physically restrain him from reaching his destination. Neighbours are gathering around the doorstep. Our only hope is that we are not alone. Scampering to the top of the house, we find our hostess emerging, panda eyed from her room. A quick phone call to the security company informs them that this particular popular TV personality has not been burgled, in any sense of the word, least of all by these two dancefloor fiends.
The day passes, and we all go our separate ways. We have a capital to flee, and with our dead phone batteries, I’m wondering if our friends and family are curious of our whereabouts. So where did this experience leave us? Well I, for one, marked the passing of my teens in memorable fashion. But what did we learn? We learnt to never stray too close to minor celebrities, or relations thereof. You WILL get carried away. You WILL put said celebrities underwear on your head and dance around singing “I’m Gruff Rhys-Jones!” You WILL be surprised at this man’s guitar collection. A gig brought us together, and these instruments gave us communion. Maybe music IS a force for social good. Except jazz. Nobody likes that.
