Column: Anonymity is bliss when a doctor's in the house

Few people in the world can claim to have never longed for an existence of  fame and fortune.
Whether it be pining fantasies of red carpets and umbrella carriers, or even a simple visualisation of a devoted fan base of teenage models with loose morals and a penchant for catsuits, almost everyone has probably flicked through the Sunday morning tabloids and thought, even for a second: "Hmm, that might be nice."
No matter how superficial, corrupt or liver-crippled the superstar lifestyle might be, there are times when a private jet, a nomadic Swedish masseuse and a genuinely indifferent attitude towards inflation rates would be  handy.
Unsurprisingly, and perhaps fortunately, no such celebrities really exist in humble Aotearoa. In a country where seeing the Mad Butcher in the men's section at Farmers is about as close to VIP spotting as it gets, it is amusing to know that despite their relative unimportance on the grand worldly scale of seven-figure salaries, body-part insurance and Third World adoption, certain New Zealand celebrities have still managed to maintain rather alarming illusions of grandeur.
I have had some pleasant distant encounters with those of the upper echelon of life. I once got sent a comprehensive account of Jim Anderton's political work from the man himself, Grahame Hall let me touch the official Rotorua Marathon torch  when I was 10 and I was once the proud recipient of a friendly smile from someone who was almost definitely Matthew Ridge.
A more recent experience tainted this sterling impression. It would seem that now, when one is gifted the grand title of celebrity, all personal qualities, primarily any sense of humility, are traded in a Cash Converters-style exchange for an all-important sense of general fabulousness, at the  expense of anyone who has to deal with that one ever again.
The unfortunate event occurred in  an Auckland nightspot, and while trying  to look as if the $3.50 bus ride home wasn't a  strain on the budget, my friends and I watched a bedraggled  creature approach us  with all the swaggering confidence of someone with a doctorate, God-like features and the cure to world hunger. To my knowledge, he possessed none of those, choosing to impress us instead with some rather flamboyant dance moves and a torrential
display of saliva.
It became clear after a stream of overheard comments and frantic whispers from some wide-eyed pre-teen bystanders that the idiot in question was not simply another mortal but was, in fact, a has-been surgeon on the country's most eminent medical drama. Yes, an ex-doc of New Zealand's favourite street was not only gracing us with his majestic presence but was also insisting that we join in on his slightly chaotic interpretation of the running man.
Our brush with fame was brief. Despite  the charm of Doctor Intoxication and his  moves, it was home time, and late-night Wendy's was about to close. Doctor,  not pleased with that,  grabbed my face  and kissed my chin with all the tenderness and affection of a St Bernard eating a mince pie. An understandable reaction of shock, disgust and agility seemed to  confuse the Doctor and we left him alone, wondering what part of his frenzied dance moves,
bloodshot eyes or slobber-drenched goatee might have possibly turned us off. As we made our  escape, we watched him refill his drink and survey the room for fresh targets. We didn't stick around to see what became of the victims.
My issue is this: in any other bar in any other city, Doctor Intoxication would have been ignored by every woman in the room, refused by the bar staff, thrown out and told to invest in a bib and a new dance instructor.
Such is the joy of celebrity. Doctor will probably milk his recognition factor for as long as possible, he will enjoy free drinks, fans and amateur paparazzi for as long as the fame train is prepared to take him.
But what after that? As Aja Rock, Suzanne Paul and anyone who has ever been on Celebrity Treasure Island will tell you, fame, especially in New Zealand, is usually brief. Without a tolerable personality, there is only so far one can go before the inevitable downward spiral of sausage endorsement, reality TV and a lifetime ban from all bars and clubs likely to attract the opposite sex.
Debt or no debt, I think I'll stick to insignificance for now.