*******************
A couple of years back my flatmate Brian and I were prone to sipping apple martinis on our large sofa whilst whiling away the soir with mundane TV. This particular evening was no exception. We had settled on the cult classic Flash Gordon for some retro cool. The martinis were rapidly helping to increase our enjoyment of the crap acting and awful special effects.
Half way through the film Brian, who has an award-winning memory for mundane trivia, pointed out that it was nearly time for Peter Duncan's timely entrance, and indeed exit from the movie.
"What?" I enquired, "not THE Peter Duncan from Blue Peter?"
Brian had hit upon yet another weak spot in my knowledge. Had my childhood hero been in Flash Gordon? A few minutes later the answer became clear. He obviously had been.
I had been a huge Blue Peter fan. My mother had strangely forbidden me from watching Grange Hill, presumably to protect me from the horrible truth about the real world. Instead homely, wholesome TV like BP was actively encouraged. I even won a Blue Peter badge as a runner up in the Winter Wonderland Competition in about 1985. The legendary Biddy Baxter was the big cheese back then and even signed the letter congratulating me.
As a result of this triumph I spent countless years making utter crap for everyone out of loo rolls and washing-up bottles like most kids of my generation. I guess the presenters were my heroes. Good role models indeed. Peter Duncan was a particular favourite as his boyish energy and enthusiasm was infectious for a tree-climbing, bmx-riding boy. I suspect that had I been ten years older I would have fancied him but he escaped that horrifying prospect by good timing alone.
Meanwhile back on the sofa I had asked Brian whatever had become of Peter Duncan. His exploits on Duncan Dares I had seen, now too his appearance on Flash Gordon. I vaguely remember seeing him on some panto posters but that was a while back. Brian, unusually, could offer no further information so I did the obvious and hit google.
The obvious first result was www.peterduncan.com. I was delighted to open the page to find the man himself in good shape beaming at his adoring public. A couple of clicks deeper and I was amazed to find that up until only recently he had been Chief Scout. He gave the impression of being a family man with some video footage of him in various places around the world in different poses with what I presumed were his kids. How lovely. My hero was alive and well.
Two further martinis had elapsed since I had started my investigations and this was the critical moment at which good judgement was replaced by childish juvenility. History would show that this next action was the beginning of the end.
Ooooh a contact link. James clicks. Outlook opens. Peter@peterduncan.com shows in the TO section of a blank email ready to go from my personal email account. Martini sends a warm wave of love for Peter Duncan to fingers:
"Dear Peter
My flatmate and I are sat on a sofa reminiscing about our youths and I've concluded that you are my favourite Blue Peter presenter of all time. I came across your website and was pleased to see that you still appear to be enjoying life. I hope that this is indeed the case and that this finds you well,
Best wishes
James"
I hit send and tell Brian what I've done, all excited that PD might even read it. I mean I assume that it is just sent to some huge stalker inbox that is carefully guarded by a super overprotective boy scout, but still I feel like I have done a good thing.
The whole incident is forgotten by daybreak the following morning.
Two months elapse and I find myself in Sydney, Australia. I like random travels and I have no concept of scale so this, in itself, can be considered perfectly normal behaviour. Specifically I have popped into an Internet cafe to check emails and try to be the vaguely responsible adult that I purport to be.
Half way down the inbox list I notice a message from a Peter Duncan. The name rings a bell but, out of context, I can't think why. I open the message to find the following:
"Dear James
Thanks for your kind message and sorry for the delay in replying. I am indeed well and enjoying life as much as ever. I hope this finds you well too
Best
Peter"
OH MY GOD. Peter Duncan has actually written to me. HE has sent ME a message saying that he hopes I am well. And from what would appear to be his personal email address. Just wait until Brian hears about this. Click.
"Oh Heya Brian
Remember that night we got pished on martinis watching Flash Gordon well... You'll never fucking guess what?! Peter Duncan's only gone and replied to my email. Even better I've now got his personal email address so can start to stalk him properly. Major result. Hurrah hurrah. Hope all well and love to fluffy.
J
Ps he MUST be gay"
Send. Two second pause. Eyes slowly start to open to max wideness. Hairs on back of neck start to stiffen. Cold feeling starts from bottom of spine creeping to tips of aforementioned fingers. Please, please tell me that was FORWARD I clicked not REPLY. Move mouse to sent items. Only one message sent and is to a peter@peterduncan.com. Utter, utter fail. I even wondered if turning the power rail off to all the PCs would be enough to stop the message going back around the world to Peter Duncan's desk. Is there someone you can call to take the message out of his inbox. Money is no object. The FBI perhaps? Nope the reality is that I have once again arsed it up.
I am, of course utterly mortified. I can picture PD opening my email, reading the contents and tutting like a disappointed headmaster. He had made the effort to respond to a fan and I had let him down. A huge, vast, deep low in my life. It wasn't like I could send a "oh just ignore that last email" message. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.
To this day I regret the wording of that email. An innocent error that must be repeated millions of times a day all over the world.
**********
August last year I was enjoying a pint of fizzy lager pop in the Pleasance Courtyard with my twin brother Tim FitzHigham, the author, comedian and explorer. I won't bother to explain the twin thing now. Suffice to say that Tim, who has a Fringe show himself in the Pleasance, had just pointed out that Peter Duncan must have fallen from fame as he was busy flyering his own show. I spat my beer out. What? Not the Peter Duncan. MY Peter Duncan. Low and behold not two tables away was the man himself in the flesh chatting casually to some potential punters. He even had a Blue Peter badge on. I gawped, mouth wide ajar debating my next move. Fight? Flight? Well actually I did nothing except go home, book tickets online for the show and hope that my name wasn't on some blacklist for audience members.
Two days later I was sat in a vast, largely empty fringe venue watching my hero role play out his life on stage as his daughter played piano for him. Amazing. I think Peter Duncan might only have appeal to the tiny fraction of fringe-goers who actually remember him, but it was a good show and I clapped harder and laughed louder than anyone else in the audience. I guess that was like saying Hail Marys for my previous sins.
Tim had just finished his show so I bought him a pint and was waiting in the courtyard for him to finish packing up when who should appear not a metre away but the man himself. Tim appeared at the same moment and I had to strike quick.
"oh Peter I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed the show". Peter Duncan shakes my hand.
"I'm glad you liked it. Thanks very much."
"Would you mind if I got an autograph and picture?" I ventured.
"Of course no problem at all," he replied.
Ticket to show signed and photo taken I waved PD off. I though it best not to mention that I was in fact the Edinburgh stalker he had probably been dreading. Or maybe I had been lucky and the overprotective boy scouts had intercepted my last email. I will never know. I do, however, heartily recommend checking whether you have clicked reply instead of forward.
- Posted from my iPad six miles high. With thanks to Ian Clarke for reminding me that I should write this true story down before I forget the minutae.
