Many Want Manny

So I attended my very first dinner hosted for the pambansang kamao (national fist), Manny Pacquiao. Since I much rather keep work-related stuff out of The McVie Show, I will not talk about how the guest of honor was almost two hours late (we had to make do with roasted peanuts), but instead talk about an unfortunate side-effect of all this adulation for the Pacman.

I’m talking about the feeling-entitled hangers-on, especially the ones whose skins are as thick as thieves.

First there are those who manage to become part of the official entourage. It’s not as if MP can’t take care of himself, but does he need that many people around him all the time? To do what—guard him? The man has fists that can kill or so serious damage—and he needs protecting? One of the hangers-on is even fondly called the pambansang anino (national shadow) because of the way he seems to be behind MP in almost everywhere, including on the ring.

And then there are the gatecrashers. One lady managed to enter the restaurant (which is supposedly closed to the public) and plant herself at a sofa near the reception. While waiting she was on the phone, and we overheard her say (in the vernacular), “Yes, I found a great spot.” When MP entered the place, she clicked away with her phone camera. Then a guy in a yellow shirt joined her, and without batting an eyelash, headed straight to one of the tables and planted themselves in the reserved seats—blatantly ignoring the name cards on the plates (which obviously did not bear their names). And when we asked them to vacate the seats, they had the temerity to refuse to stand up. What. A. Bunch. Of. A-holes. No wait, let me change that: What. A. Bunch. Of. Retards.

Eventually we were able to eject them from the seats because the assigned guests eventually arrived. (On a side note: guests arriving even later than a two-hour-late guest of honor actually deserve to have their seats given to someone else.) But thick-skinned leeches that they were, they insisted on staying on, trying to look for other empty seats that they can take over. They said they were from the party list of MP; we insisted they weren’t in the official list of guests for our dinner party. They insisted on staying, and even had the gall to talk to some of the guests who also knew them, in an attempt to stay inside the venue. In the end they weren’t served food.

Worst is when the feeling-entitled hangers-on drag in their own gatecrashing guests, insisting that they’re “with them” and that MP’s okay to have them around. Excuse me?! This isn’t MP’s party, heller!

I swear, if I become a celebrity as huge as MP is, I will insist that, with the exception of my immediate family, no relative or friend can just come in uninvited and unannounced to a function in which I am the guest of honor. (And if it’s a member of my immediate family, I’d tell them off first before letting them in.) I will even give my hosts permission to boot them out. I don’t care if they “came all the way from the province” to see me, or that they “wanted to surprise” me. I hate surprises of that kind; if they like surprises, then let them be surprised that I’m having them ejected from the venue. Surprise! And if they plead that they’ve not had dinner yet, they can just troop to the nearest McDonald’s or Jollibee. I’m pretty sure I don’t have relatives or friends who are dirt-poor.

No wonder there are times when you’d see MP actually zone out in these kinds of events. It’s a traveling circus that surrounds him, and unfortunately all these jesters want to be on the ringside with him—which makes him look like the top clown.

* * * * *

After an hour of letting clients and VIPs get close to MP for autographs and taking pictures with him, our big boss said it was our turn to have our stuff signed. My officemates brought gloves, posters, and DVDs of MP’s past fights; one even brought brand new pairs of four different Nike MP editions (one pair each) for him to sign. They looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you having something signed by him?” I couldn’t contain the contrarian in me; I just rolled my eyes and said, “Ewww.”