I met my fans the other day – all three of them.

Pretty much everyone who reads this column, I’d say.

While they were all surprisingly normal, I don’t mind admitting the experience was a bit disappointing.

None of them asked for my autograph, which was a good thing because I find public adulation just a little tiring at times.

All that “Damian, we love you” and “Damian, you’re the greatest”, while completely deserved, does wear a bit thin after a while.

While I’m happy to report they were three (surprisingly) well adjusted people, I must admit their priorities concerned me.

They were all husbands and wives of work colleagues and I met them at different times during the Daily’s Christmas party.

I wish I could blame alcohol for their problems but I was sober, which means I was probably only vaguely obnoxious.

The first bloke was all right.

“Love your column,” he said. “I really like the sarcasm.”

Sarcasm? Bloody sarcasm?

How many times do I have to remind you all that I am a sensitive new age guy?

Sarcasm isn’t in my repertoire.

But it’s a slight which I can forgive.

Then came a former workmate (let’s call her Sarah or something like that) who inquired very briefly about me, my life and everything important to me (how have you been? long time no see? how’s your wife handle being with a loser like you?) before cutting to the issue which was obviously of most importance to her.

“Is the scooter here?” she asked, with far too much reverence than I cared for.

Now some of you might remember I did a column on my scooter a few weeks back and it seems to have made a bit of an impression.

At least, it had on Sarah.

“Oooh, I just loved your scooter column,” she gushed. “Can I see it, huh? Can I? Can I?”

Not, you will notice, “I love your column every week but I thought the one about your scooter was particularly good.”

Oh no! It’s all “where’s the scooter? Can I see it?”

And then they want to touch it and, before long, they’re winking flirtatiously and asking “can it take two people?” and all that sort of rubbish we celebrities endure.

So what could I do?

I let her see the Silver Bullet from a safe distance and she went away happy.

It makes me happy to help enrich the lives of little people.

It’s just the sort of guy I am.

I thought my period of community service was over for the day, but no.

Another colleague grabbed me as I passed by in search of a stray sausage that might have fallen from the barbecue hotplate.

“This is the bloke who writes that column you like,” he said to his wife.

“Oh,” said she, swooning slightly. “I love your column. It’s so funny.”

Now that’s the sort of attitude I like. Just don’t ask for my autograph and we’ll get along just fine, I was thinking to myself.

She lent in closer, making it clear she wanted to ask me something important.

“Can I ask a big favour?” she said.

Here we go, another bloody autograph hunter looking to make a killing on eBay!

“Is the scooter here? Can I see it?”

The bloody scooter again!

Have you people no shame?

So I made another excursion to the carpark and introduced my mate’s wife to the Silver Bullet who, by this stage, was starting to get just a little too big for his 50cc boots.

“Oooh, isn’t he cute?” she gushed. “You must be such a chick magnet on that thing.”

Well yes, I guess I probably am, now that you mention it.

“So where’s your wife?” she asked.

My wife? My bloody wife? Why do you want to know about her – it’s supposed to be all about me!

“Well you give her such a hard time in your column, I just wanted to meet her and see what she’s really like. She must be a wonderful woman.”

They warned me this would happen. In between my wife and that bloody scooter, I think I’ve created a monster.