My Brush with a Famous Person

Stories from when I lived next door to Roger Taylor. Almost.

It was our last day house hunting in Cornwall when the estate agent took us to see a tired dormer bungalow on one of the best roads in Cornwall: Bar Road, near The Ferryboat Inn, on the Helford River. Google it.

You could just see the roof of Roger Taylor’s house if you craned your neck from the upstairs window. Estate agents are wily: “The whole of Bar Road got invited to his Birthday Party one year,” he said, demonstrating an impressive sixth sense for gullibility.

The poor layout and hideous swirly-patterned carpet paled into insignificance. I am a massive Queen fan. We bought a bungalow on the strength of it.

For the first few months, I would stroll past the entrance to his mansion, in full make-up and looking like precisely the sort of person a rock star would want to be friends with.

After six months, my skin was allergic to the make-up, and I had to hope my sunny disposition and smile would do the trick.

Five years on, I thought nothing of trudging past in dog-walking rags, looking like a homeless person on crack.

I still collected Roger Taylor stories. Everyone in Cornwall seemed to have met him except me. Our window cleaner was his window cleaner. You can get my autograph for a fee.

More than one lovely tradesperson told me they had been invited inside to bash the gong. You know, the one in Bohemian Rhapsody. I can non-exclusively reveal that should you be lucky enough to get an invite, it might be best to take ear defenders with you: it is louder than you expect it to be. Fast forward to 5.52 to hear it here:

One of my neighbours, famous in his own right (I’ll save that story for another time), was not a Queen fan. When he was told that Queen’s Drummer lived locally he replied: “I knew the Queen had a piper, but I never knew she had a drummer as well.”

One day, sitting outside the Ferryboat Inn, the young relation of a different neighbour pointed to a man getting out of a dinghy wearing (amongst other things, of course) dark sunglasses and a leather jacket with the collar turned up. She loudly announced: “Look at ‘im. Who does he think he is — he looks like an ageing rock star.”

Her mother turned to look and then uttered the immortal lines: “Yes dear, well that’s because he is an ageing rock star: that is Roger Taylor.” I still haven’t forgiven her for not calling me to get down there double-quick.

Let go of your hopes and desires.

It took me seven years to let go of the desire to meet Roger Taylor. The inevitable happened. I had just been for a swim in the Helford River when he walked by with his divine wife, Sarina. “Nice swim?” he asked. Alas, in letting go of my desire, I had also jettisoned all the fantastic lines I had memorised that would undoubtedly have led to our life-long friendship. I muttered something stupid and boring, like, “Yes, thanks.”

I no longer live near Roger Taylor, but I continue to foster good relations with my old neighbours. I have made them promise me that should he ever send out party invitations to the whole of Bar Road again, they will give me enough notice to buy their house. At a premium.

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