False fame in James' name

AH, fame is indeed a food that dead men eat, a river that beareth up things light and swollen, an empty bubble. I speak from experience, having had my allotted 15 minutes recently. Now I am Mr Nobody again. The dweeb with the haircut that went badly wrong. The bloke who walked around with his flies undone for a whole day yesterday before someone decided to tell him.

Have you heard of James Dalton? I hadn't either. Not until a few weeks ago when I tried to check into a hotel in Johannesburg. The location is important to the story, which is the only reason I mention it. I do not want to dwell on the fact that I have been there and you haven't.

The name of the hotel is not important, so I will leave it out. Both as a precaution against embarrassment (mine and theirs) and as a defence against prosecution. You can't be too careful, libel laws being what they are these days. All you need to know is that this was one of those hotels where they fold the end of the toilet tissue into a neat V-shape. Hardly worth paying US$150 (HK$1,200) a night for, but whatever turns you on.

James Dalton was a member of the South African rugby squad that won the World Cup. He achieved a certain notoriety when, during the game against Canada, a number of opposition players' heads accidentally came into contact with his fist. He took an early bath and was forced to watch the rest of the tournament from the sidelines. Unable to take any further part in the proceedings, as John Motson would say.

This did his image no harm. South Africans saw him as hard done by and he became a hero. James Dalton was well-known in South Africa. Now he is very well known indeed. Famous even. He's the Pete Best of sport; the man who didn't play in the World Cup Final.

At which point I enter, fresh from a duty free flight and eager to avail myself of all the facilities - business centre, electronic mail, valet parking, everything a man could ever want - on offer at said hotel.

At check-in I was greeted by a young man with a lapel badge that said TRAINEE. Poor schmuck. The management might as well have given him a badge that said SORRY, HAVEN'T REALLY GOT A CLUE WHAT I'M DOING. He tapped computer keys so hard I feared for his fingertips. His brow furrowed, his ears blushed scarlet and, just as I was about to suggest I take a walk and come back later, he looked up, triumphant. 'Is your initial J?' In all good tragedies there is a point at which things start to go horribly wrong. At the time it seems insignificant, but looking back it's as obvious as flatulence under a duvet. In King Lear it's when Lear gets miffed with Cordelia.