I own his DVD, his book, have been to his gigs, I listen to his podcast. You name it, I own it. I’m not proud of this- it’s pathetic bordering on obsessive- which makes what happened last night all the worse for me.

After watching his show at the Manchester Apollo (not great- all rehashed old jokes), my friend Lauren and I decided to wait for our taxi in the bar.

Brand’s adoring public was in the foyer, waiting to meet the man himself, who had kindly consented to shake some hands and sign some autographs.

So, imagine my excitement, my sheer shock, my joy, when I looked over Lauren’s shoulder, to see the man himself approaching, in the almost deserted bar.

Lauren- God bless her- decided this was the moment I was to meet my hero, maybe invite him in person to my fantasy dinner party.

Once we were within 3 metres of him, a burly, unhelpful, on a power trip type bodyguard, had unceremoniously thrust himself between Lauren and Russell, warning the former to “stay back”. I’m not sure what 6ft2 Russell had to fear from 5ft5 Lauren, but, benefit of the doubt, perhaps she was carrying explosives or something.

As they continued on, Lauren managed to get about a foot away from Russell Brand, lodging herself between two theatre chairs in the process- at this point I should mention that I was “casually” loitering behind her, smiling sheepishly.

The moment is upon us, “Russell” shouts Lauren, in one last desperate bid to get his attention, he hesitates, and he looks over!

“Please Russell, I’m sorry, would you have a picture with my friend? She loves you!”

He looks at Lauren. He looks at me, a camera clasped in my trembling hands, he smirks- surely, this is it, it must be. I shall have my picture taken with Russell Brand!

I stand waiting for his response, why hasn’t he said yes yet? Lauren looks nervously at me, I smile confidently back at her. Russell won’t let us down.

Until, that is, he walks away. In the opposite direction. Not so much as a glance over his shoulder.

I feel as though I’ve been dumped. Seriously, it felt like a very personal rejection. He might not have a clue who I am, but I felt like I knew him, and he should have known this was important to me!

Lauren looked back at me, she put her arm around my shoulder, and handed me a drink, “F***ing men,” she muttered.

So what’s my point in all this? Never trust celebrity.

I would say I know the career and public persona of Russell Brand quite well, better than most.

The fact is though, if the only camera around is your own, and the only people watching are the bar staff, fans don’t seem to be so important.

It doesn’t matter that my money has helped keep him in skinny jeans and hairspray.

So off he went, into the congregation in the foyer. Smiling, signing, posing, and enjoying the adoring gazes of hundreds of people.

Me? I took my sad little Russell Brand key ring off my key, finished my vodka and went home with Lauren to eat my own body weight in chocolate and convince myself that I’m far too good for him anyway.

Hannah Leyland