Having been a journalist for most of my working and, when I could get away with it, non-working life, I've met loads of slebs.
Quite a few in lifts.
Including this bloke...
But I'm not here to talk about Arsene Wenger. Oh no. Apart from anything else, he's a bloody Gooner.
And I'm not here to talk about being stuck in a lift with Andrew Eldritch (and, fortunately, a bottle of Jack Daniel's), although I could as it would complement Goth's Wayne Hussey tale - they both played in the Sisters of Mercy. Or being in a lift with Michel Platini and Gary Lineker, although not at the same time.
And I'm not here to talk about interviews with Charlton Heston, Dick Francis, Bob Geldoff, Kirk Brandon, Mike Peters (he gets around, eh Goth?), Tom Robinson, Toyah Willcox, that bird out of Texas, Steve Davis and Timmy fookin Mallett.
Nor will I wax lyrical about the loony drink I shared with my then hero Phil Lynott. It would take all day.
Or the quiet one I shared with Britt Eckland by the banks of the River Ouse.
Or even the time I nearly knocked over European Commission president Jose Manuel Barosso at an EU summit two years ago.
Nope. Bollocks to the lot of 'em.
I'm going to tell you instead about meeting, in my book, the celeb to end all celebs. God himself, to those of us proud to call ourselves Manchester United fans.
And I'm going to tell you about it tomorrow. Cos I need Marmite jst thinking about it...