About 10 years ago I was walking along the Croisette at the Cannes Film Festival with actor Simon Pegg when I spotted a party taking place on the yacht of software billionaire Paul Allen. This was the Octopus, one of the world's largest gin palaces, and as the celebs and models thronged the deck it looked like so much fun that I suggested we try and crash it. "No way," said Simon. "What if I'm photographed being turned away? It would be really embarrassing."
Alas, Simon wasn't on hand to advise Paul McCartney on Wednesday when the ex-Beatle decided to try his luck at a Grammys after-party he hadn't been invited to. The result was humiliation on a global scale, as the world's press reported how he and his entourage were twice refused entry. "How VIP do we gotta get?" he quipped. "We need another hit."
Clearly, McCartney was hoping his fame would be sufficient to get him through the door, but when the bouncer failed to recognise him he had nothing else to fall back on.
As someone who perfected the art of gatecrashing in the 90s, I could have given him a few tips.
My greatest success was getting in to the Vanity Fair Oscar party in 1994, generally regarded as the Everest of professional party-crashing. I used the simple expedient of pretending to be another British journalist who happened to be on the guest list, and enjoyed a full 10 minutes of stargazing before he appeared at the entrance with his gold-embossed invitation. The only other person I know who managed this feat was a female reporter who turned up in 1996 with a pig on a lead. Claiming it was the pig from Babe, one of that year's Best Picture nominees, she sailed past the clipboard Nazis without a second glance.