Leonora (the meat selling tranny) and other extraordinary celebrity confessions.

Did you know Jack Dee was a hostage negotiator, Jeremy Paxman a champion bare fist boxer, and Cilla Black immortal? Discover twenty three extraordinary confessions straight from the mouths of the celebrities themselves in this candid tell all that will leave you shaking your head in disbelief, and arm you with a mountain of knowledge to impress your mates down the pub.

For the first time ever these well known celebrities have decided to go on record and tell the shocking truth. Forget anything else you might have heard, set your expectations to eleven, and prepare to be astonished.

Excerpt:

The Mighty Potter

I've lost a bit of weight recently so the lyrca doesn't chafe in the crotch so much. There was a time a while back when it took me so long to put the outfit on, by the time I got there, the whole thing was over. I had to make sure I took the outfit off before anyone saw me, and then try to explain why a reasonably well known comedian seemed to constantly be turning up at crime scenes just after the police had arrived. That was always a bit embarrassing.
I'm not quite at my target yet, but I've dropped a belt size and I'm making steady progress. Last week I saved a pensioner from slipping into a hole in the road in Dorking, and rescued a confused squirrel from a length of discarded piping, at the back of an estate in Chigwell. A couple of months ago, I'd never have got to either of those places in time. I'm easing myself back into it, so I don't want to take the difficult jobs on too soon.
I've got the hearing, the super strength and the flying, but I only ever use them to save people, and sometimes, very rarely, to sort out particularly persistent hecklers. I had one guy at a gig in Chester who wouldn't leave me alone, so I waited until the end of the show, picked him up while he was walking to his car, flew him to Blackpool and dropped him off at the top of the tower. He was up there for six hours until the police finally managed to get him down.
I've been spotted by the media a few times, but I refuse to give interviews, and nobody has guessed yet that it's me. I was a little upset by the 'too fat to be a superhero' headline the guardian went for recently, and also the one in the mail asking 'Is this what James Cordon gets up to off set?' with a picture of him crudely photo-shopped onto my body. Where do they get these journalists from?
My costume is mint green lycra with gold piping down the arms, a maroon cape with velour trim and turquoise dusting, and fire-engine red, mid-shin boots. I have to get those with an orthotic insert due to a collapsed arch I got clearing snow off railway lines in Cumbria. I managed to slip on a bit of compacted ice between the sleepers, and it's not been the same since.
When I'm not Johnny Vegas, I call myself 'The Mighty Potter', which I'll admit sounds a little bit like I'm a superhero snooker player, but I’ve always been into ceramics, so I wanted to choose a name to reflect that. On the front of my costume I've got a pagoda shaped lidded pot designed by Bernard Leach and then my name written across it in what looks like slip trailing.
The only person who knows it's me is my mum, but I needed someone to do the adjustments and I'm crap with a needle and thread. I've made her promise not to tell The Sun, even if she's a bit strapped for cash.