I have an odd gait. Some people ask about it, others pretend not to notice. Everyone always clocks it. For years I have walked this way.
I only realised recently that it was not my charm and winning smile that made me memorable, but my ungainly walk.
“Good to see you again Stuart,” people would say. How did they remember me and my name? Your walk, this way, dummy.
The good news is my walk has absolutely nothing to do with my love for the sample-pioneering, Adidas re-branding rap trio Run-DMC.
The American hip hop trio from Queens in New York, founded in 1981 by Joseph Simmons, Darryl McDaniels and Jason Mizell, reached my young Scottish ears in 1985.
But it was many, many years later in a bling-ed out basement nightclub in Cannes, France when I got a personal Run-DMC moment.
Reverend Run (Joseph Simmons) had been booked to do a late night set with DJ Ruckus while the Cannes Film Festival occupied the town above ground as part of a promotional attention seeking event by Belvedere, the vodka company .
Despite the hideous prospect of being in a sweaty French basement club, strobes illuminating the army of black-tied slavering old rich men Dad dancing with their “nieces,” I couldn’t miss the chance. It was the Rev from Run-DMC after all.
Finishing off my own monkey suit with a pair of white Adidas shell-tops I arrived fashionably late at the venue and walked up a red carpeted corridor lined on both sides by the bold and beautiful massed ranks of hired hand party fillers popular with organisers at such events.
As I strode along, funny gait and all, I noticed I was flanked by a large contingent of Ray Ban-shaded dudes wearing tight suits cut neatly around enormous muscles, their big precious metal chains swaying imperceptibly around thick necks.
I nodded at my fellow cool music seekers and limped on unabashed before being ushered through the roped entrance by guards and down the guilt-edged gold stairs.
It was only as they turned right through the “backstage” door at the bottom of the steps as I walked straight through a black velvet curtain into the club that I realised I had come in with the Rev and his VIP crew by accident.
Probably noone had wanted to ask the handicapped kid who he was.
It was a great moment for me and my Adidas.
Boy, was it a late night. He mustn’t have been reminded he was in France, six hours ahead of Queens, NYC.
But despite the late hour, DJ Ruckus and the Rev rocked the Riviera for the tragically hip Canadians and everyone else in da club.
I wonder if they ever thought who that weird walking white dude was.