A bloke I don t much care for recently ventured the unsolicited opinion that I have developed the annoying habit of beginning my fortnightly column in hotpress with rambling anecdotes which don t really go anywhere. Here, just for him, is another one

A few years ago, while leaning outside an Edinburgh bar in the early hours of a fresh August morning, I remember being totally mesmerised by the size of Frank Skinner s head. If you have never seen Frank Skinner up close and personal, or heard him wax lyrical in a self-effacing manner about the size of his head compared to the rest of his body, rest assured that it is enormous, and can be best described in the following sound bite borrowed from Friends Chandler Bing: Big head! Big head! Big head!
So anyway, there I was doing that Edinburgh Festival thing of leaning against a pub at about 2:30am on a fresh August morning, when I noticed a very large shadow being cast in the streetlight. Within a nano-second of glancing up at what I assumed to be a lunar eclipse, I found myself gawping in drunken amazement at Frank Skinner s enormous cranium. Needless to say, he clocked my gaze and nodded politely in my direction, as if to say: Do I know you or are you just looking at me in that scary way because I m famous?
Polite to the last, I stood rooted to the spot, staring back with saucer-eyed, slack-jawed astonishment, as if to say: Oh my God, that is the biggest head I have ever seen! How the fuck do you balance it on those puny shoulders?
After a seemingly interminable stand-off, he approached, asked if I was alright, received the faintest nod of confirmation that I was fine and proceeded on his way with a bemused Goodnight mate! And that was that. I never saw him again except regularly on television, once in the Olympia Theatre and most recently on my way to Waterloo Tube Station the other night, a few minutes after several cohorts and I had been told that we hadn t a hope of getting in to the audience of that night s episode of Baddiel & Skinner Unplanned.
We weren t particularly surprised, to be honest. Shortly after arriving (with tickets and at the appointed hour) and joining the lengthy queue snaking out the car park of London Studios and down the adjacent street, we were informed by a put-upon and profoundly apologetic researcher that our journey had been fruitless and decided to hit the road home to catch the show on television and tell everyone who wondered why we weren t in the studio that it wasn t live at all and had been recorded hours ago. As we hatched our fiendish scheme on the way to the station, we noticed a couple of figures ambling towards us from the other direction.
Fuck me, look at the size of that bloke s head! mused one of the lads.
Jesus, yeah. And the other fella s a ringer for David Baddiel! said another.
It is David Baddiel! And that s Frank Skinner!
Then, the inevitable suggestion: Baz, you re mates with them. See if they can get us in.
Now before you get the wrong idea, let me state for the record that I have never, ever claimed to be mates with David Baddiel or Frank Skinner unless I thought it would increase my chances of getting laid, which doesn t really count.
I have certainly mentioned to friends that I have asked David Baddiel questions, I have observed that he is one of the more stimulating interviewees I ve ever got on tape and I ve commented on the fact that he is the only celebrity I have ever spoken to twice who remembered my name second time around. I have also mentioned to anyone who is willing to listen that Frank Skinner has an unfeasibly large head if you see it in real life .
Needless to say, it therefore follows that my mates assume that David Baddiel, Frank Skinner and I are as thick as thieves. So, as two of Britain s richest, most successful and popular entertainers drew level with us, with just the width of a narrow street seperating us, I dithered over how best to weasel out of having to ask them if they could get us in to their show.
As I saw it, the potential for humiliation was enormous. What if Baddiel didn t recognise me and thought I was a tosser? What if Skinner did recognise me and thought I was a tosser? What if neither of them recognised me and my mates thought I was a tosser?
What if, what if, what if my friends and I jumped the pair of them, dragged them off somewhere and detained them for an hour? They d miss their own show, we d be on the front page of every newspaper in Britain and Ireland and hopefully the judge would see the funny side and let us off with a slap on the wrist. It is one of about three brilliant impulses I have ever had and one week on, I still regret not acting on it.
Baddiel & Skinner Unaccounted For would certainly have made for riveting viewing: No Blokes. One Sofa. No Script. It d never work and neither would I, again.