The Reality Of Wonderlust

I have a confession. I am in love with a vampire. Along with the rest of the world's female population, I have fallen utterly and hopelessly in lust with Edward Cullen - he of the Twilight fame. However, being a relatively late uptaker to the whole vampish phenomenon, it wasn't until I watched the Extras on my New Swoon (sorry, Moon) DVD that I realised what extraordinary powers make up can have. On screen, Edward is a figure of beauty - that chiselled jawline, the brooding eyes, the marble chest, etc (sigh). But in real life, Robert Pattinson is ever so disappointing, with his lame stubble, blemished skin, bad teeth (even for a vampire) and over-styled hair.

But that's the reality of film and TV. And perhaps celebrity in general. You are always slightly disappointed in real-life. Yet there are exceptions and some fantasy crushes will remain for an eternity.

When I was 12, Morten Haarket took over my world, controlled my thoughts and 'made' me graffiti the walls of our family house (I was subsequently grounded by my mother, unsurprisingly). He was my first and probably most extreme crush, but oh, those moody eyes and cheekbones...never mind the fact that he sung like a girl and had a penchant for leather necklaces. Through a contact of the family, I was smuggled into the TV studios of Saturday Superstore at Television Centre and waited patiently for 6 hours in the grotty BBC canteen for A-ha to make their appearance. Dressed in my finest 80's clobber, armed with pen and paper, I hurled myself across the Norwegian hunk's path and made him stop short in his tracks. 'Morten...', I squeaked. 'Yah?' he replied, rather bemused at the neon-clad, Chinese midget with badly applied blue eyeliner, standing before him...'Er...are you giving any kisses away today?'. To this day, I don't know where I found the courage to ask him that - for a 12 year old, I wasn't particularly advanced and certainly didn't hang out with the 'cool' girls at school (the ones that later went on to be teenage mums, incidently...) so why I asked my pop idol to kiss me, in front of lots of people, is still a mystery. But they say 'if you don't ask, you don't get' and so it was rather fortuitous that Morten was in a generous mood that day and proceeded to plant a huge smacker on my left cheek. I don't really remember much after that, apart from the other fans hissing around me in disbelief that I'd (a) had the cheek to ask him, and (b) been lucky enough that he'd obliged!

My luck didn't stop there. In my twenties, I discovered rugby boys and Lawrence Dallaglio. Now HE was a hunk of a chunk. I met him too, this time at a photo-shoot. A very good friend who worked in PR was covering a story about a charity, of which Lawrence was a patron. The 'news' piece, to be published in the Daily Mirror (!) on Valentine's Day, would feature a number of women describing how they would 'dress' the rugby-god IF he was THEIR boyfriend. What my friend had forgotten to tell me was that I was supposed to bring my boyfriend to the shoot, to be photographed together. Slightly problematic in that I was most definitely single. So, upon arrival at the studios, they 'found' me one. A total stranger. Unattractive, drippy, bad breath, horrendous shoes. The sort of man you would make plans to escape from on a blind date. Not a good start.

Anyway, the 'couples' photo-shoot involved me seductively draping myself over this random person's body on a chaise longue, whilst lustfully gazing into his (beady, wonky) eyes. At that exact moment, I wasn't sure what was worse - being outed for being single in the first place OR the thought of having my face published in a trashy tabloid with a fake (ugly) boyfriend. But the reward was so worth it.

After the boyfriend shoot, the women were ushered into another (less sleazy) studio. And there he stood. Mr Woof-meister himself. He came over, shook my hand and introduced himself and... I squeaked. I opened my mouth again and nothing came out. Not a peep. It was mortifying, excruciating and cringe-worthy all rolled into one. NEVER one to be lost for words, I stood there, waiting for something, anything to come out of my mouth. Eventually, Lawrence gave up and moved onto the next adoring female. To make matters worse, once we'd all sat down on the comfy sofas, I found myself staring at his enormous thighs (so big, he couldn't put his knees together...) and found him and the rest of the room watching me watching his crotch. Awful. Then, if things weren't bad enough already, we had to give our answer regarding how we would dress Lawrence if he were OUR boyfriend. Before I knew it, I shouted out, too excitedly 'Forget clothes, I'd have him straight off the pitch, in his muddy kit, covered in dirt...phnarrgghh!'. Oh god.

BUT it wasn't a total disaster and there is an upside to this painful experience. After about an hour of hanging around, waiting for the poncy photographer to make his mind up about light levels, exposure, etc, I eventually found my voice and a little bit of courage. Persuading the photographer to take a polaroid of me with my hero was easy. Prising myself off him was another thing. I still have that photo and it makes me chuckle every time I look at it - me, brimming with happiness, smiles-a-beaming, clinging onto this huge hulk of a man, as if my life depended on it. He, looking rather nervous, as if he'd finally met the Stalker From Hell.

Roll on 20 odd years and the reality of your wonderlust hits you. Inevitably your heroes age - Morten must be knocking on for 50 now (eeuuugghh) and doesn't prance around the stage too convincingly any more - although he STILL looks divine. As for Lawrence, he doesn't have much hair on top these days. I spotted him on TV last weekend, covering the Six Nations, looking less sporting hero, more old man. However, the camera did zoom out briefly but long enough for me to catch a glimpse of those thighs and yes, ladies...he still has it. Woof woof.