The day I met Amy Winehouse

If you’re ever in London during the summer, do yourself a favour and get tickets to the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. It’s an absolute gem, always top-tier quality, and thoroughly enjoyable.

A few years back, a friend and I were heading to a show there and decided to grab a bite to eat nearby beforehand. As we walked up to the restaurant, there was a guy standing outside who looked suspiciously like a bouncer. He also looked oddly familiar. A few seconds later, the penny dropped, it was Mitch Winehouse, Amy’s dad. He must have caught us giving him the "do I know you?" look, because he offered a polite smile and clarified, “Oh, I’m not the bouncer, I’m just waiting for somebody.”

Fair enough. We headed inside, and sure enough, there was Amy herself, seated with a male friend.

Now, look, I’m no prude. I’m all for a bit of public display of affection, but this was firmly in “get a room” territory. She was draped all over this poor guy like an octopus. He looked a bit embarrassed by the whole scene, though I suppose he knew what he was signing up for.

My friend leaned in and whispered, “Are you going to go get her autograph?”

I looked over at the human pretzel situation happening at the table and replied, “What, next time she comes up for air?” I couldn't help but add, “She clearly learned to kiss by sucking porridge through a straw.”

Honestly, I’ve always held the same view as my father on the whole celebrity thing. He used to work at the BBC, where there was a very sensible, unwritten rule: you leave the stars alone. The BBC was meant to be a safe haven from fans. Famous people must get so tired of the endless “can I just get a quick selfie?” brigade every time they try to exist in public, even if, in Amy’s case, "existing in public" meant putting on a full theatrical performance before dinner.