Dan Morris: You shall not pass!

Previously on these much-hallowed pages I have lamented over how the 'name-dropping Olympics' has been a mainstay tournament at Chateau Morris for at least 20 years.

As an ex-newspaper man - and a scion of the Gordon Gecko golden era of gargantuan phones, signet rings and excessive hairspray - my father was privileged over a long career to rub shoulders with many of the so-called rich and famous.

'So-called' is an unnecessary and cheap epithet, truth be told. Genuinely, dear old dad frequently broke bread with the likes of boxing champions, speakers of our illustrious House of Commons, and even American Presidents. An ad man who rose to the top of his profession, my father (quite rightly) revelled in the world in which he'd earned his place, and it's fair to say has enough on some of the most prominent public figures of the 80s and 90s to, even now, have them shot - a fact that has never been wasted at the many dinner tables we have shared together since I came of age, and decided to follow him into the world of the press.

While during my career thus far I have been equally blessed to have met my fair share of star-spangled celebrities, I have never quite been able to match the clout his little black book has wielded, and had some time ago resigned myself to the fact that the likes of Bill Clinton and Betty Boothroyd (God rest her immortal soul) may never be joining a soiree at Morris Manor at my behest.

Yet, hope springs eternal... and it sprung in earnest some weeks ago.

A fateful Tuesday morning saw me making my way through the delicious grind that was the news of the day. The build up to the General Election was in full swing, and all of us lucky enough to have a seat at Weekend Towers were ploughing through the exciting developments of the leading parties' campaigns with gusto.

Then the call came through. And what a call it was.

Top Weekend bod and journalista extraordinaire Vicki was on the line with an out-of-the-blue and entirely heart-stopping request. "Stupid question, but would you like to interview Ian McKellen?" I was paralysed, for a good half a second that felt like an eternity. Sir Ian. Gandalf himself, and Magneto to boot. Long had I considered having a chat with a man such as he as my professional and (as a bona fide nerd herd champion) personal Everest. The answer, of course, was simple. "YES! With expletive bells on!"

Now - full disclosure - here at Weekend we naturally work tirelessly to bring you the very best in entertaining content and top-notch celebrity chatter. Yet when a name such as this becomes available for a chin wag, we are often as starstruck as the best of them, and this case was certainly one of those.

With the interview quickly secured for the following week, I spent the rest of the day almost literally bouncing off the walls, thrilled at the opportunity to quiz the mighty Sir Ian over his new theatre role as Falstaff in The Player Kings, but also over his no-doubt incredible experiences as a Hollywood heavyweight and, most importantly, I was excited to see if would regale me first hand with a snippet of his legendary Maggie Smith impression (Google The Graham Norton show for this- it's just sublime).

Stick your Presidents in your pipe and smoke them, Pop - I'm having tea at Rivendell.

The following days were little different, and as a much-less-than-modest man, I took the opportunity to inform every ne'er-do-well and vagrant in my local of my upcoming sit down with one of the RSC's (and, frankly, the entire acting world's) greatest sons.

Pleas for shout outs and autographs arrived in abundance, and without making promises, I pledged - with the biggest glint my eyes have ever held - to do my best.

And then, with my lifelong propensity to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory rearing it's tell-tale head in a timely fashion, disaster struck.

In a harrowing and universally concerning turn of events, the night before our scheduled interview, the magnificent Mr McKellen took a tumble from the stage during a London Player Kings performance, injuring himself to the extent that a hospital visit was required.

The world was aghast. We have, in recent years, had to bid farewell to a trove of international treasures - names like Paul o' Grady, Meat Loaf, and of course, the aforementioned Betty Boothroyd, coming straight to mind. Yet, no one, anywhere, was ready to consider the unthinkable - that Gandalf the Grey himself could possibly be moving to meet his maker.

Our hearts were in our mouths, the entire world crossing their fingers that Sir Ian would rally, be well, and not leave us without the incredible light he had brought into the world.

The following morning, Sir Ian's people were straight in touch. Thankfully, the great wizard himself was doing well, but - understandably - would be unavailable to chat to for some time. Having suffered a few tongue-in-cheek jokes about the lengths that people would now apparently go to avoid a conversation with me, I passed on the sincere best wishes of myself and Team Weekend that our interview mattered absolutely nought, and that we all simply hoped that the wonderful man was on his way to a full recovery.

Though McKellen the Mighty has since graciously bowed out of his run in The Player Kings to concentrate on said rejuvenation, I am very happy to report that this indefatigable bastion of acting talent, humour, and genuine magic is doing well and on the way to tip-top form once again.

And while his name has (for now) eluded being ticked off in my family tournament, I am monstrously grateful on behalf of fans everywhere that this tale did not have a more bitter end.

Meat Loaf was bad enough... but there really is only so much we could all take.

Until next time, Sir Ian. Keep getting well, and make sure your 'Maggie' is ready for us soon.