Looks Familiar

I never really understand it when people say that someone has 'one of those faces'. I’m not sure what it would mean to have ‘one of those faces’ although I suspect it’s not a good thing. My face has so far got me through life without too much embarrassment. More importantly it got me through school without being beaten up, despite the glasses, and I went to a rough school so it’s a badge of honour as far as I’m concerned.

It has been claimed that my face resembles those of a couple of famous folk. Some charming friends claim I look a little like Elton John, although I don’t see it myself. I wouldn’t mind being a few quid behind him although I don’t think I’d enjoy his lifestyle, that would be a little too camp, even for me.

The same friends have also suggested that I look like the former writer of Doctor Who, Russell T Davies. Now this one I see. It’s a pity there’s no ‘Stars in their Eyes’ for writers of TV sci-fi, I would win hands down, and I just wish he would do something naughty and salacious as that might open up the opportunity for me to make some money as his lookalike.

Take a look for yourself, what do you think?

Having said that, Russell and I have the same look as 99% of all Doctor Who fans. Seriously, if you ever see the attendees at a Doctor Who convention it’s like witnessing the birth of a scary clone race of bespectacled middle aged men. The geeks will inherit the Earth, although all they’ll do is hunt down obscure British actors who played bit parts in old Jon Pertwee episodes so they can get their autographs.

I’m not often mistaken for anyone else but it seemed to happen quite a lot in Leicester. Well twice, and quite close together.

When I blogged last time I mentioned Leicester Market and this reminded me of mistaken identity number one. There I was, wandering through the covered area of the market, near the little shop that sold knock-off electricals, when I became aware of a strange little man following me. He reminded me of a modern day equivalent of Baldrick, short and grimy with hair stuck flat to his head. I figured he was either being weird and walking too close to me or he was about to mug me, either way I strangely decided to bring the matter to a head and find out, and so I stopped dead in my tracks. As did he.

I turned to look at him, not sure quite what my next move was going to be but he broke my train of thought by saying “Hello”. I figured that muggings don’t usually start with such social pleasantries so I said “Hello” back but then I had to ask the obvious question, “Sorry, do I know you?”

He believed he did, “Victoria Park” he said. I considered this for a moment. I knew where Victoria Park was, I’d been there once for a Radio 1 Roadshow but that was about the limit of my knowledge of the place, other than it looked like quite pleasant with people walking their dogs or kids having a kickabout on a Sunday afternoon. My new associate obviously thought I was being a little coy and decided to prompt me. “The toilets?”, he enquired.

The present Mrs Hayward says you can tell what I’m thinking by the look on my face. Baldrick must have got the message pretty quickly as I could barely stutter the words “I’m sorry but you have really got me mistaken for someone else” before he disappeared in embarrassed haste back into the crowded market. I stood there aghast for some time, horrified that he thought that I was someone he may have had an illicit liaison with in a public toilet. Who did he think I was, George Michael? Really, I’m not that sort of boy at all. I know I drank a lot when I was a student and got into all sorts of situations but that was definitely not one of them.

Sadly, as if to fly in the face of my protestations, mistaken identity number two starts with an encounter in a public toilet. Well, a pub toilet to be precise.

I used to go to a pub called ‘The Victory’ on Welford Road every Sunday night, sadly it’s not there anymore. I had joined a successful quiz team and we soundly thrashed the locals every week much to their disgust. Whilst visiting the loo one night I was contemplating the answer to a particularly difficult geography question when I became aware that the guy to my right was staring at me. Just to explain to any ladies reading, when you’re standing exposed at a urinal this is not the done thing. It’s not toliettiquette, if you were.

I glanced across as if to say ‘stop staring at me’ when the chap, a tall man with a brown bushy beard, said “Hello”. Having learned nothing from my previous encounter I politely said “Hello” back whilst rapidly finishing what I was doing. As I was in the confined space of a pub toilet I decided to keep things cordial so when he asked me how I was I said “Fine, how about you?”

“Not too good” he said, “my Dad died the other week”.

“Oh” said I, “I’m sorry to hear that”. My brain was screaming at me to shut up, I didn’t even know him let alone his father.

He went on to ask me if I still drank in ‘The Mailman’. I’d never drunk in ‘The Mailman’ in my life but rather than tell him this I just said no, which was, in some respects, true. I tried to concentrate on washing my hands but he kept talking. He asked if I’d seen much of Dave recently. I knew someone called Dave and I hadn’t seen him recently, so regardless of whether mine and his Dave were one in the same, which was unlikely, I just said no.

He then asked me the killer question. “Do you still play with the band?”

This should have been my opportunity to say, “You know what, I think we’re at crossed purposes here, I don’t think I’m who you think I am”. That would have been the sensible thing to do. However, thanks to several pints of Everards Tiger (our winnings from the previous week) my brain decided that I’d gone too far and I may as well carry on with this charade. I was as surprised as anyone when I heard myself say “No, not for a while”.

Band? What band? I didn’t even know what instrument I was supposed to play or what the band was called. On my way back to the table he persisted on questioning me about people I didn’t know and I tried to be as evasive as possible until he left, which was after a good five minutes of him being stood by my table of friends, all of whom were becoming more and more baffled as they listened to our conversation.

When he eventually left I explained to them how this had all come about and they thought it was all quite amusing. So there it was, a funny pub story to tell people. Except it didn’t quite end there. I kept seeing him, in different places, and we’d have the same conversation about people I didn’t know and bands I’d never played in (I played the drums apparently).

The final time was when I was working behind the bar of a pub called ‘The Vaults’. He turned up at the bar, I served him a drink, and we started the usual ‘going nowhere’ conversation but I had nowhere to escape to. After a while another guy joined him and he decided to introduce me. He explained how I was Dave’s mate and I used to be in the band. The other chap looked confused. I think he knew straight away that I wasn’t Dave’s mate at all and could see that the nearest I had ever come to being in a band of any sorts was when I played the triangle at Sunday School.

They eventually retired to a table and I could see some animated conversation going on and they occasionally looked over. I suspect this was the evening that someone put him right and I do wonder what he made of my elaborate, if accidental, deception, because I sure as hell didn’t know how I’d got there. I was just being polite. Eventually I left Leicester so I never saw him again, which probably worked out well for both of us.

I suppose in both cases there’s a lesson to learn; if you are mistaken for someone else it’s probably best to own up to it straightaway. Otherwise you risk being arrested for lewd acts in a public toilet or asked to step in when the band’s drummer is taken ill, and with my sense of rhythm that really is a bad idea. 

Mind you, I got to do an encore.