“FAME is the perfume of heroic deeds.”

This quote from Socrates was taken in an age where only exceptional acts could elevate someone into the public eye.

As such I would not have begrudged them a little action.

However, in the current era of reality television it seems anyone can be temporarily famous if they are willing to sacrifice their pride for the cash, sex and limelight it brings.

When a contestant gets kicked out of whatever God awful show they are in they must desperately grasp all three as quickly as they can before they pass their expiry date and everyone forgets who they are.

This sounds like I am tutting and being disapproving when I am actually saying is I want in.

I have no desire to achieve the tawdry fame of some Big Brother cretin or Britain’s Got Talent reject but I am intrigued by the dating possibilities.

Sadly this column has yet to shoot me to international stardom but maybe as a journalist I could leech off the reflected fame of the people I meet through my job.

It was not until recently I realised I knew a few famous people.

I had gone into a school to talk about journalism and I found myself being interviewed about various aspects of my job.

For ten-year-olds their questions were surprisingly insightful and covered changes in the industry to the starting wage for a fresh-faced cub reporter.

They then asked if I had ever met anyone famous.

I wondered if it was morally OK to lie to win the approval of a classroom of children.

Then it struck me, I had met a few celebrities in my time.

Let me think who would they have heard of...

Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, David Cameron and royals from Charles and Camilla all the way down to Edward.

I grew in confidence as I painted my fleeting acquaintances with Z-list celebrities into childhood friendships, I even rattled out a few ex- Saints players.

Then I realised I had forgotten my biggest achievement – I am being pestered by Barack Obama.

I once tried to get a comment from him on a story I was doing regarding the situation at Ford.

Oddly it seems he had little to say on the future of a Southampton Transit plant but what my barrage of phone calls and emails did achieve was to get me on numerous personalised mailing shots.

Sometimes they come from the President and other times from his wife.

For dramatic emphasis I implied I was considering putting a restraining order out on them.

I looked down at their awestruck faces then one of them voiced the collective sentiment of the group.

“Wow, have you really met Matt Le Tissier?”