Stalking #BenedictCumberbatch

Yesterday I had another visit from a Benedict Cumberbatch fan. I thought little of it to begin with; there is after all a steady stream of visitors for that particular set of stories. Yet there was something that did not sit well with me about this particular reader: the manner in which they had formulated their search. So here is what I have to say to my accidental visitor.

 

To whom it may concern:

While I appreciate your custom, let me make one thing clear: this is not an information hub for Benedict Cumberbatch’s whereabouts. In truth I am astounded that in searching for his address you should have ended up here. How many pages of Google results did you have to read through to reach my post? Don’t answer that. I was sufficiently intrigued to retype your search terms and give the engine a try, but in all honesty tired of scrolling through for a glimpse of my blog’s signature after the first five pages came up empty. That must have been one epic search.

For the length of a moment I thought that perhaps you were looking for a way to send Benedict some fan mail. However, since you bypassed the information on offer on Cumberbatchweb, I had to drop that particular line of reasoning and conclude that it was his personal address you were after. Ahem.

If my powers of deduction have failed me, feel free to circumvent what follows. If not…

There is a very good reason why people – and celebrities more so – keep their personal contact details under wraps. Beyond a simple desire to be able to step out of one’s front door without having to wrestle a crowd of nosy strangers, there is also the matter of risk to one’s bodily security to take into account. Yep. I do refer to stalkers.

The term may be often attributed to fans in a jokey manner, but the reality of being stalked is no laughing matter. Take it from someone who has been unfortunate enough to have experienced it, and that without the label of a celebrity in toe: it is downright terrifying.

As a writer, I may occasionally indulge in borrowing London settings for a meeting with a fictionalised Cumberbatch. I may even go one step further and share knowledge of his actual preference of a place if, and only if, that information is already public knowledge. You will not find on this blog his (or anyone else’s) home address, phone number or personal email address.

So… If you are in the mood for a laugh or a little Benedict-day-dreaming, feel free to stop by whenever you have the time or inclination. Otherwise, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Nor would I be willing to if I could.

2nkul5dIf you remain undeterred beware, according to Tim Walker, Mr. Cumberbatch has been known to request the services of our be-helmeted police service to ensure that his privacy would be respected. Better not let it come to that.

Cheerio.

I don’t fancy Benedict Cumberbatch. Daily Prompt: Pants on Fire

I don’t fancy Benedict Cumberbatch. Please! I only admire his craft.

Half true.

I am an admirer of his craft.

He’s very good at what he does. Hell! The only line I could remember after watching Atonement was his: “Bite it. You have to bite it.” And let’s admit it; he didn’t feature much in it.

I saw Danny Boyle’s Frankenstein four times. Yes. Four. In one week. I confess, I  gave Jonny Lee Miller’s naked bod an equal share of that, but it was Cumberbatch that got me standing in line at 7am in front of the NT, shaking against the lukewarm contents of a coffee cup.

His acting prowess made an Arthur Conan Doyle fan of me. He rekindled my passion for theatre. I have a lot to be thankful for in that respect.

But. I have to concede, reluctantly, shame-faced, that I also fancy the pants off him. Have done, obsessively so, for some time now.

It’s so bad that my husband’s nickname for Cumberbatch is ‘your boyfriend’.

“When’s your boyfriend’s show next on? Taking their time with the new Sherlock, aren’t they?”

“It was awfully cold on that stage. You boyfriend didn’t get much of a chance to show off, did he?”

“If you say one more time that I’m the Scottish version of your boyfriend, I’m getting the Tesco divorce pack. I’m serious.”

You get the picture.

Why did I lie about it? Because I prided myself on being a rational creature, someone who saw celebrity culture for the mind-bending, money-peddling machine that it is. I was so damned smug. Fell off that horse pretty quickly, didn’t I?

I am still at a loss to understand how it could happen. Yes. That’s it. It is something that’s happened to me. I mean, I like Ben Wishaw’s acting too, David Tennant’s, James McAvoy’s, Tom Burke’s… But I’m not stalking any of them on networking sites.

I finally understand what actors feel like when they suddenly get famous and struggle to cope with all the attention. As a recovering Cumberbatch addict, I feel the same in reverse: deer-in-headlights bewildered by this obsessive streak I had no idea existed in anyone!

Embarrassed? Yes. My only hope is that now I’ve confessed it, I can gather myself up and move the f on.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/08/23/daily-prompt-fake/

Cumberbatched.