When we went to America, Robin Williams came to the gig, and Mike

Host: The sky over Los Angeles was a burning canvas of fading orange and bruised violet, the kind of sunset that pretends to be beautiful while hiding its exhaustion. The city below pulsed with neon veins, every street alive, every light screaming for attention. On a rooftop bar overlooking Hollywood, the hum of distant traffic blended with the lazy rhythm of jazz leaking from a nearby speaker.

Jack sat at a corner table, his jacket thrown over the back of the chair, a glass of scotch reflecting the last sliver of sunlight. His grey eyes — tired, sharp, unyielding — followed the movement of the city below like a man who’d once been part of its rhythm but had since been spat out.

Jeeny sat opposite him, her small frame draped in a soft shawl, her hair glinting black against the skyline. She was silent at first, gazing at the horizon where the day surrendered to the night. The wind played gently with the edges of her napkin.

For a while, neither spoke. The air between them carried that peculiar weight that only two people who’ve both seen too much can share.

Jeeny: “You know what Noel Fielding said once? ‘When we went to America, Robin Williams came to the gig, and Mike Myers had lunch with us and wanted to write a film for us. We're idiots — we turned it down. I think we were just sick of each other at that point. When you get famous, it takes some time to realise it isn't going to be good.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Yeah. The Mighty Boosh guy. I remember that interview. Half brilliance, half regret — the kind of thing people only admit when the cameras stop caring.”

Jeeny: “It’s tragic, isn’t it? They were standing right on the edge of everything people dream of — fame, Hollywood, the works — and they walked away.”

Jack: “Or maybe they escaped.”

Host: A small gust of wind scattered a few napkins across the table. The sound of a siren drifted up from the street below, faint but persistent. Jeeny turned her head slightly, studying Jack’s face — the faint lines near his mouth, the weariness that didn’t come from age but from experience.

Jeeny: “You’d call walking away from a dream an escape?”

Jack: “If the dream’s a cage, yeah. Fame’s the most seductive prison ever built. You think you’re free because everyone’s watching you — but that’s when you stop belonging to yourself.”

Jeeny: “You say that like you’ve lived it.”

Jack: (shrugs) “You don’t have to be famous to lose yourself. Just be successful enough that people start mistaking your name for your worth. That’s all it takes.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward slightly, her eyes catching the faint shimmer of the city lights reflected in her drink. The jazz behind them swelled — a trumpet sighing like a tired confession.

Jeeny: “So you think Fielding was right — that fame isn’t good?”

Jack: “Fame’s a mirror that only reflects your worst angles. You start out thinking it’ll give you meaning, then it steals your mystery. Look at Robin Williams — the guy who showed up at their gig, the one Fielding mentioned. The man who made the world laugh but couldn’t save himself from his own silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s cruel, Jack.”

Jack: “No. It’s honest. Williams was brilliant, but fame didn’t protect him. It made him lonelier. It’s the same story every time — Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Anthony Bourdain. You climb high enough, and the air gets too thin to breathe.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still admire them.”

Jack: “Because they dared to climb. I just wish the fall didn’t always come next.”

Host: The lights below flickered, like a heartbeat syncing with their conversation. Jeeny took a slow breath, her shoulders rising and falling, as though she were carrying every name Jack had spoken.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there something beautiful in the risk? They burned fast, yes — but at least they burned bright. Maybe the tragedy isn’t fame itself, but what happens when you chase it without love beside you.”

Jack: (smiles bitterly) “You always bring it back to love, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what lasts. Even Fielding said it — they were just sick of each other. That’s what killed their magic, not the fame. When you forget why you started — when you forget the people you started with — you start mistaking noise for meaning.”

Jack: “And you think love solves that?”

Jeeny: “Not solves it. Anchors it. Fame without love is like flying without gravity — sooner or later, you drift too far and forget how to come back.”

Host: A pause hung in the air, fragile and full. A waiter passed, the soft clink of glasses echoing through the quiet. Jack stared at Jeeny, the city reflected in his eyes like distant fire.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? When I was younger, I thought fame was proof I’d finally made it — that I was better than the noise. But now, when I see people chasing it, all I see is hunger. That same desperate hunger that devours itself.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking like a man who’s seen the inside of the machine.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. In a smaller way. I’ve worked with people who thought applause meant affection. That followers meant friends. It’s all an illusion, Jeeny. Fielding figured it out too late — fame doesn’t fill you, it hollows you out.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still sound nostalgic.”

Jack: “Because there’s a part of me that still misses the illusion.”

Host: The wind swept over the rooftop, carrying with it the faint smell of cigarettes and jasmine. Below them, laughter rose from a nearby balcony — carefree, echoing, human. Jeeny tilted her head, listening.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? I think fame isn’t the problem. It’s our emptiness that’s the problem. We think fame will fix it — that the noise will drown the silence inside. But silence doesn’t die; it waits. And when the lights go down, it’s still there.”

Jack: “So what do we do? Make peace with the silence?”

Jeeny: “We learn to listen to it. To love something small again. A song. A person. A quiet life.”

Jack: (softly) “You sound like you’ve already done that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Maybe that’s why I’m not afraid of being forgotten.”

Host: The city glittered beneath them — endless, restless, full of stories that all began with wanting to be seen. Jack looked down at his drink, then at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, his eyes softened with something close to surrender.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny — Fielding called himself an idiot for turning down a film with Mike Myers. But maybe that was the smartest thing he ever did.”

Jeeny: “Why do you say that?”

Jack: “Because sometimes walking away from what everyone else wants is the only way to keep what’s real.”

Jeeny: “And what’s real, Jack?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Sitting here with you. Talking about ghosts in a city that keeps pretending it’s alive.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “That’s the only kind of fame that matters — to be known by someone who actually sees you.”

Host: The skyline shimmered, the last of the twilight bleeding into full night. The music faded into a gentle murmur, as if even the instruments had grown tired of pretending. Below, the city still roared — but up here, there was only the sound of two voices, steady and real.

The wind lifted again, catching Jeeny’s hair, brushing Jack’s face with the scent of rain and memory.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Fielding meant — fame isn’t good because it teaches you what never was.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the gift of failure — it gives you back your soul.”

Host: They sat in silence then, watching the city lights blink like false stars. Somewhere far below, someone laughed, someone cried, someone dreamed of being famous. But up here, on this quiet rooftop, Jack and Jeeny had already found something better.

The night deepened, cool and forgiving. A single shooting star streaked across the dark — brief, bright, and gone — leaving behind only its afterglow.

And in that fleeting light, both of them smiled, as if they finally understood:

Fame burns. But truth endures.