The Adventure of a Lifetime: when I unwittingly became Chris Martin

One morning in early 2000, I woke up as the lead singer of Coldplay. The incident would change my life forever, but for now I was entirely oblivious to it. I had a shower, slung on some clothes and stepped out for some breakfast.

I was sitting in the sunshine outside a Café Nero on the Tottenham Court Road when the first ‘random’ approached. He knew me from somewhere, he said, tilting his head; I racked my brains but to no avail, and he left me to my pain au chocolat. In the weeks and months that followed, though, it happened again. And again. There was something generic about my face, I began telling people, ‘Happens a lot’, etc. But play it down as I did, looking back, I was every bit as bemused as they were - ‘And the strangest thing was waiting for that bell to ring’.

Three years later, someone finally put a name to the face. It was the summer of 2003 and I was with a friend in a beach bar on the Playa de la Victoria, Cadiz, when a waiter came over – I assumed, to take our order. ‘How is Gwyneth?’ he asked, and I returned him a confused look. My friend began guffawing. ‘You do look like him,’ he confirmed, and at last, the penny dropped. The waiter had been referring to Gwyneth Paltrow, the Hollywood actress who was soon to marry…me.

What changed to make people start recognsing me as Chris Martin, I’ll never know. Was it the stubble? Had I become more goofy, perhaps? Or, indeed, less goofy? Most likely, it was the monumental fame the man now enjoyed: more than ever, no doubt, people wanted to believe they were seeing the real Mr Martin, and their hearts were leading their heads. Whatever the reason, all of a sudden, there was nowhere to hide.

Before Coldplay, one of the things I most treasured about living in London had been the anonymity. Yet now, just like that, it was gone (cheers Chris). It seemed there was precious little I could do about it either. I considered getting a beanie or something, but that wouldn’t work: that was what Chris did. Shades? Ditto. Graphic short-sleeve tees? Also out. Desperate for some perspective, I took a turn around Regent’s Park, paused at the Boating Lake and peered down at my reflection in the water below. As expected, the superstar stared back. But then he did this curious thing; he just sort of shrugged, as if to say ‘Nobody said it was easy’ or – I don’t know - ‘You don’t know how lovely you are’. Either way, the message was clear: it was time to embrace my new identity.

I have fond memories of the years that followed. ‘Tommy, they’re looking at you again,’ my old man would say. ‘You know he’s a rock star now,’ Mum would counter. And I won’t lie, it felt good. Prior to Coldplay, you understand, the only band I’d been in was called ‘Camembert’. It comprised just one other person and our songs were so silly they made Flight of the Concords sound profound. At our biggest, we played to a packed-out sitting room, so to paraphrase Kelly Jones at the 1998 Brit Awards, it was nice, at last, to get some recognition.

With hindsight, ‘peak Chris’ hit in the mid-noughties. In 2006, I travelled to Trinidad and Tobago to work as an intern at a legal chambers. The job consisted of reviewing the files of clients facing the death penalty and trying to find ways to commute or overturn their sentences. It was challenging work, so I took every chance I could to unwind. The twin-island republic had qualified for the World Cup that year and a friend invited me to go watch a friendly between the host nation and Peru. I don’t want to think about what we drank that day, but flags waving, soca music blaring, the atmosphere was electric (big shout out to Machel Montano).

Then the fans spotted me. ‘You really him?’ one asked, clambering her way over the stalls. And, all right, I might have got a little carried away. ‘Keep it down, yeah?’ I replied, to my friend’s amusement, and turned back to the game. Whoops. A few minutes later they were back. ‘Sing something for us, nuh?’ one said – and, look, I know it’s awful, but I didn’t have the heart to let them down. Also, I confess, the challenge was irresistible.

‘They spun a web for me…’ I began in my best falsetto - only then realising that I didn’t know the rest of the lyrics. Regardless, it seemed to satisfy them just enough, and my friend and I left before a French photographer could convince us to do a post-match photoshoot.

There were other highlights – the exquisite bar service my friends and I once received in the Rosewood Hotel, the karaoke night in Clerkenwell, meeting another Chris Martin doppelgänger at the LSE, and so on – but none was so treasured as the last, which happened on Bermondsey Street a little under two years ago.

For context, I hadn’t been spotted for a while (sightings tailed off significantly when I lost my hair). My parents were in London for my father to have an oncology appointment at The Shard, and I decided to surprise them there as a show of support. Afterwards, I tentatively suggested lunch at José Tapas Bar. We shared a longstanding love of Spain, and testament to his spirit, Dad agreed. But over lunch, he felt a bit worse and we decided to call it a day. We realised we weren’t likely to have many more moments like this. Yet just as this melancholy thought occurred, the waitress appeared with her phone out, and we got the comic relief we needed: ‘Chris, can I have a selfie?’

Wait…what happened to Camembert? I hear you ask. We disbanded, of course, and Dan Green took his talents to South Africa, where, I can confirm, he sings to packed-out crowds up and down the land. Sometimes I wonder what might have been, had we stuck the course. Then I remember what it feels like to be a rock star, and run myself a cold bath.