By ELIZABETH RENZETTI

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

LONDON — It is still a thrill to see Sir Paul McCartney in the (remarkably unlined) flesh. Macca, as he’s known here, was attending the opening of a show featuring photos of his recent concert tour.


At the door of the gallery in Camden Town were dozens of paparazzi, while inside a team of tiny, blonde PR damsels linked arms in attempt to keep the sweaty mob of invited guests away from the Sir and his lady, with about as much success as a pod of jellyfish fending off a school of sharks.
My friend, who had managed to get us invited to this shindig, thrust her drink at me and fished around in her bag. Looking for her “I Love Paul” T-shirt, perhaps, or a packet of tofu for him to sign. When she pulled out her cellphone, I actually thought for a minute she’d be calling a friend with this sighting: “Oh. My. God. You won’t believe who I’m looking at. And yes, his hair is a very weird shade of brown.”

Instead, she held the phone up in the tiny gap between people’s shoulders and aimed at it Sir Paul. I asked what in God’s name she was doing. “If I get a picture published in Heat, it’s £200 ($456),” she said.
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