Coronation 'chicken' is not for us...

These days, she just seems to appear in advertisements for upholstery. Coronation Street must seem such a long time ago.

Ah yes. Natalie Barnes. The sultry vixen who tempted boring old Kev away from his spark plugs and big ends. Not to mention telly wife Sally, she with the warmth of a long-beached cod.

So there we were in Dartmouth, minding everybody else's business and doing what tourists do best. Nothing in particular.

Quite suddenly, a film crew pours out of the rear doors of a large van and starts heading for the harbour front.

Fascinated, we follow these pied pipers with their mikes and booms, curious to know what's going on. It is not long before we find out.

Natalie Barnes. Sorry, Denise Welch, one-time landlady, now to be found reclining in leather trousers across settees of all shapes and sizes.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I seize the opportunity to obtain an autograph. Not for me, I hasten to add, but for my Corrie-struck youngest daughter. Of course.

Pushing my way through the gaggle of onlookers and film crew, I politely ask for Ms Welch's fair hand to press ballpoint to paper and duly oblige.

Not on your life. A flunkey appears from nowhere, grabs my arm - yes grabs, and that's technically an assault - and hisses: "You can't have an autograph now. We're reading scripts. Come back later.".

I beat as dignified a retreat as possible. Come back later, indeed. Stuff that.

Readers of this column will know this is not the first time that I have encountered Coronation Street actors and actresses.

You will recall that Kevin Kennedy - Curly Watts - snubbed my daughter Alice at the New Road celebrity cricket match a few years ago. It is precisely for that reason that Watts' character is doomed. Such is the power of Phillpott's curse.

Oddly enough, when I am accompanied by the rest of my family - escorted by staff, if you like - the stars seem to be of a warmer disposition.

For example, the Christmas before last, we bumped into Stephen Beckett at a Birmingham Hippodrome Press reception. Dirty Doc Ramsden was more than happy to put his mark in Alice's autograph book and also seemed remarkably keen to engage us in conversation.

Yes, I know, I couldn't believe it either.

Anyway, wearing my most sincere face, I gently inquired as to the welfare of the then-with-child Maxine Peacock. Perhaps, as a doctor, he might know the identity of the father.

Doctors are quite good at this sort of thing, I've been told. In other words, was it you, oh lurking lothario with the over-active stethoscope?

No deal. That kind of information was top secret, said the doc.

Still, you can't blame me for asking, can you?

Then, would you believe it, a few months later, I'm standing in the queue at Barcelona Airport when she-who-must-be-obeyed hoots: "Isn't that Roy Cropper over there?"

Well, I don't know about you, but there's only so much excitement a chap can take in one decade. I'd already bumped into Penelope Cruz in the lounge - sorry, Pen, I'm spoken for - and here was The Street's Mr Interesting.

There was no time to waste. With proffered pen and paper, I courteously inquired as to whether he had enjoyed his Iberian sojourn. Then we got down to the nitty-gritty.

Roy, stick your monicker on this, old son.

And before you could say "cup of tea and a barm cake please" Roy - real name David Nielson - whipped out a picture postcard of himself and scribbled, with many a flourish, his name in the space provided.

I thanked him, and bade farewell. On the flight home, he and his wife were three seats in front of our party. Always a nervous aviator, I felt strangely reassured by the presence of Corrie's most hopeless case.

Back in England, we bumped into him again, fumbling in his purse for some change to make a phone call. Ever the helpful sort, I was happy to oblige. That's dear, dear old Phillpott, though - friend and patron to the stars.

Almost a year later, my wife did even better. While staying at an hotel in Manchester, not far from Granada Studios, who did she bump into but Audrey Roberts and entourage.

Waiting her chance, like the wily old she-fox that she is, my wife pounced at an opportune moment and engaged Audrey - real name Sue Nicholls - in conversation.

"Eeeee-eee loovie, coom and sit down," she trilled. And never one to let the side down, she-who-must-be obeyed complied.

Sensing that La Nicholls might spill the beans on the Richard Hillman murder mysteries, my wife mustered all the powers of subtlety for which she is renowned, and tactfully inquired as to whether Audrey was going to be the next to be disposed of by the dastardly Dick.

Indeed, would she join wife number two - or was it three - underneath the foundations of the flats development upon which Hillman was pinning so many of his hopes?

"Eeee-oooo loovie, ah coodn't tahl yoo now, cood ah?"

Nevertheless, despite my wife's disarming directness, the atmosphere remained convivial, so much so that further tinctures were ordered by Ms Nicholl's party. Amazingly, she-who-must-be-obeyed was asked if she would like to stay.

However, even though valour may, in this case, be the better part of discretion, my wife bade everyone goodnight and duly retired to her chamber.

Now, if the truth be known, it doesn't really bother me that Denise Welch couldn't spare the time to sign an autograph for my youngest daughter.

I do realise how busy she must be, sitting on sofas, slaving away all day, wearing her lipstick to a stub and trying to earn an honest crust.

But obviously, I wouldn't be human if I didn't compare her to the debonair David Nielson or seductive Stephen Beckett. And as for Sue Nicholls - well, she is quite obviously a lady in deed as well as station.

And although there is not an ounce of malice in Phillpott's body, a tiny part of me cannot help but feel mortally offended.

Sad to relate, it pressed all my buttons regarding the now well-documented New Road incident of just a few short years ago, when Curly Watts was just too busy, too important... and too up himself to sign an autograph for a fan.

Still, time goes by and one must remain philosophical about the vagaries of existence. Perhaps when his wife Emma Watts is finally off the scene, Natalie Barnes would be free to climb off her latest settee to come back to the Rover's Return.

Then, she and Curly could set up home together, destined to live boringly ever after. They deserve each other.