A long long time ago, in one of those clubs that was fabulous for about five minutes in the late eighties in New York, I was out dancing with some friends. And when it became more interesting to sprawl around and watch the crowds, I struggled through the beautiful and the sweaty to the bar, then tried to weave my way back to the sofas where the friends slumped with an armful or frozen margueritas (I said it was the late eighties already, right?) and mexican beers with little wedges of lime jammed into the top.

And I was doing fine, with my ducking and diving, my excuse mes and my sorries. Until some arsehole bumped into me and sent the drinks slopping and splashing down my finely adorned front.

"Arshole!" I hissed, stating the obvious as I looked him up and down, taking in the tight white tshirt, the gold earring, the rather patchy stubble, the black leather jackets, and the rather podgy belly. "Who do you think you are, George Fucking Michael?"

"Er...yes, actually."

I stomped off, sneering over my shoulder at him, as a large burly bouncer sort pulled faces at me and said, "yeah!" over the porky-michael's shoulder.

I parked the drinks and waved my hands around and moaned about the George wannabe who soaked me to the skin. "Er..." they stuttered, "that is George Michael. Didn't you notice the paparazzi yelling 'George! George!"

I've always been better at spilling drinks than recognising celebrities.