@cravengossip Jason Orange from take that is landing at Heathrow terminal 3 at 12.30 today!! Hurry to the crave!!

A surprise guest at the thirteenth anniversary reunion of the Jimmy Egan’s Boxing academy at the Britannia Country Hotel in West Didsbury. Steve Egan, who along with his brother Sean, runs the gym which is named after their father is pictured with Jason Orange and Councillors Sandra Bracegirdle and Richard Cowell.

The Egan gym is a very successful local community organisation based on Royalthorn Road and the brothers are keen to develop it further as a local community centre with classrooms and social and meeting rooms.

Jason Orange was very friendly and took time to talk to fans at the event, something which was much appreciated by all those associated with the gym.

http://wythenshaweworld.com/2010/02/08/take-that-you-boxers/

Jason Orange in South Kensington, South-West London, buying an orange juice

Таки в Лондоне

Blighted by severe jet lag - in the past eight weeks I've flown to Los Angeles, Portland, Dallas, Mexico, Orlando, Miami, Antigua, New York, Los Angeles (again), Chicago, New York (again) and Johannesburg - I stumbled into an organic vegetarian restaurant in Kensington, where they serve platefuls of hot gruel (I never have a clue what I'm eating but it invariably tastes delicious) and was greeted by a familiar grinning face.

'Hello, Mr Morgan,' smiled Jason Orange from Take That. (As I said on Britain's Got Talent recently, I was the band's official biographer and knew them all before they'd ever had a hit.)

'Fancy joining me for a coffee?' he suggested, so I did, and we sat basking in the glorious mid-afternoon sunshine, chewing the fat about life, the universe and the perils of fame.

Sir Paul McCartney was in the papers today revealing how he had a rulebook for dealing with fans ('I don't sign things or do pictures if I'm eating or in B&Q,' he said, to which Jason observed, 'I agree with him, but I'd love to know if he really goes into B&Q.')

'It's funny how things have changed for you since we first met,' he said. 'You used to be the one writing about celebrities, now you are one yourself.'

At which point, a young teenage girl asked me for an autograph.

'What are you doing here?' she asked.

'I'm auditioning this guy for Britain's Got Talent,' I replied, pointing at Jason. She looked at him, didn't show a flicker of recognition, thanked me and walked off. As we both laughed at the irony of this moment, she returned.

'She's worked out who you are,' I whispered. But she hadn't. She just wanted a picture of me as well.

As I posed, two lads in a lorry shouted out, 'Oi, Piers, we've got talent!' at the top of their voices. Again, not an eyebrow raised towards the international pop superstar sitting with me.

'Never mind, mate,' I consoled Jason. ' Someone will recognise you soon.'

As if on cue, a middle-aged lady walked up to him.

'Excuse me?' Jason turned and flashed his best celebrity smile.

'Could you look after my dog while I go inside?' We both burst out laughing.

'Of course,' he replied politely, as she tethered her terrier to the door. 'No problem.' Minutes later, a lady in a light pink tracksuit jogged past, slammed to an abrupt halt, ripped out her iPod earplugs, and exclaimed at me: 'Not you! You're bloody everywhere!'

It was, by sublime coincidence, Stella McCartney. She sat down with us.

'What on earth are you two doing?'

'We're playing a game of Who's More Famous?' I replied. 'And I'm winning.'

'Try, Who's More Popular? and see how you get on,' she suggested.

After an amusing few minutes (Stella's remarkably down-to-earth given her absurdly legendary parentage), she sprang to her feet and began running off again.

'Does my bum look all right?' she shouted back.

I examined the relevant body part closely as it wiggled off down the High Street and shouted my verdict: 'Looks fabulous from here!'

Then a sudden thought flashed into my head. 'By the way, does your old man ever go into B&Q?' But, alas, she'd gone.

As Jason and I said our goodbyes, a man in a motorised wheelchair passed us, stopped a few feet on, and performed a slow U-turn.

'This is it,' I said, excitedly. The man wheeled back towards us, then diverted at the last minute into the restaurant.

Jason sighed. 'I'll never live this down.'

Tonight, I voted Labour in my local Kensington polling station, which is a bit like wearing a Spurs scarf in Arsenal's stadium, then headed down to the various TV election-night parties to offer my views as a 'talking head' pundit.

The BBC had hired a boat on the Thames (dubbed 'The Luvvie Boat'), and I was on the first panel with Jane Moore and Clive 'face for radio' Anderson (they wanted me to bring Amanda Holden, but she declined by text, saying, 'Sorry darling, I'm having a spray tan!!!!')

The latter only said two things, and one of them was his obligatory sly dig, this time at my 'Have you ever joined the Mile High Club, Prime Minister?' interviewing technique. Of course, if dear old Clive had deployed such a technique himself, then perhaps his own TV chat show might still be on air.

After I finished, I was stopped in the galley by the legend that is Nicholas Parsons, and his wife.

'We are both HUGE fans of yours,' said Mrs Parsons, 'and LOVE your column in the Mail every Sunday!'

'In that case, I'm going to put you in it this week,' I said. And so I have.

Over at ITV's party, Mary Nightingale - wearing quite spectacularly sexy high heels - interviewed me and Alastair Campbell together.

'The new Kray Twins,' I heard someone mutter. 'This is the first and only time where I won't be the most unpopular person on a TV screen,' I told Campbell, who actually agreed.

At midnight, I was talking to Andrew Gilligan, the reporter at the centre of the infamous sexed-up Iraq war dossier scandal, when Campbell approached. The two men haven't exchanged a single word since they went to verbal war with each other in 2003.

Campbell suddenly realised who I was with.

'Oh hell, not you!' he snarled at Gilligan, before marching off at high speed.

'Well, it's a start,' I observed.

The election itself was extraordinary. Suffice to say, most of the nation said 'No, we can't' to David Obama, Messiah Clegg drowned as he walked across the water, and Gordon Brown did far better than expected, but not well enough.

My favourite moment came when that revoltingly disloyal specimen Charles Clarke lost his seat. I was sad for Lembit Opik, though. He made me laugh with his Cheeky Girl and 'we're all going to be killed by asteroids' antics.

I texted him my sympathy, and he rang immediately.

'I'm absolutely gutted,' he said. 'If you fancy a pint, my diary's suddenly very free...'

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home....7BC7WRk