We landed at Speke airport, Liverpool, around midnight. Two planes must have landed at the same time and the disgorgement converged like marbles in a funnel at the Border Control corridor. A piece of paper falling from the ceiling wouldn’t have reached the ground, we were that packed. Yet a voice coming from a flourescent yellowed man, then another, yelling, ‘Make way there! Coming through.’ Well, of course we did, expecting a cripple or a passenger at death’s door needing an emergency exit to reach an emergency entrance at The Royal Liverpool Hospital. But no. It was a young tall man, with a gorgeous young woman and child. Woman looked embarrassed at the fuss, man didn’t. He was a blur being ushered through the Red Sea parting and waved through passport control. I don’t follow soccer particularly but a passenger next to me shouted out, ‘Peter own goal Crouch! Get to the back of the queue.’ Ah. Crouch plays for Stoke City, and he is famous among the sports fans. He passed so close to me that he could have reached out one of his looooong arms to touch me. I wouldn’t have let him, of course. I am famous too – in my house, but I have dignity. Not that I am immune from scoring own goals.