Omar-Sharif has fallen on hard times and is having to make his way as a cabbie in London.

I hailed him after a late-running meeting in SW1 meant the only way to avoid missing 19.08 (and not missing Who Wants To Be a Millionaire) was to make a dash, by taxi, to Victoria.

Unfortunately Omar-Sharif's rear seat belts were not working so I had to sit in the front and witness up close the way he dodged traffic, so as to avoid missing the train.

And so we got talking about the hard times and his namesake - the very great actor Omar Sharif - who obviously he was not, just one of the hundreds of Egyptians named after their most famous compatriot since Tutankhamen.

Omar-Sharif is apparently now a very popular double-barrelled first name in Egypt. According to my Omar-Sharif, the phone book in Alexandria, from whence he hails, is paced with Omar-Sharif Smiths and Omar-Sharif Joneses (actually they had more Egyptian sounding surnames, which I can't remember and couldn't spell - but you get the general idea).

Omar-Sharif's father (also Omar-Sharif) is unable to work, due to an industrial accident. So my Omar-Sharif, who has lived in London for nearly 20 years, has to send money back home to help him and his mother, as well as supporting his own wife and young son (also called Omar-Sharif).

By the time I'd got the hang of this rather complicated family set up and had a brief chat about Doctor Zhivago and Lawrence of Arabia, we were outside the entrance to platform 16.

Due to a combination of falling for his tale of woe and being too late to wait for change, I ended up tipping Omar-Sharif quite heavily and ran down the concourse just in time to make the 19.08 but not early enough to get a seat. Fortunately, friend Peter already had one (a seat) and allowed me to perch on the arm and tell him about Omar-Sharif.

"I suppose my parents could have called me Peter O'Toole, which might have been a good thing," said Peter. "There were four Peters in my class at primary school so it was a bit confusing."

"Although," I interjected, "if the fashion for naming your children after film stars had caught on, to the extent it did in Egypt, you might have been one of four Peter O'Tooles."

"Whose fathers were also called Peter O'Toole, just as all Americans are called George Bush."

"And I could have been Elizabeth-Taylor Enfield," I said, warming to the idea.

"I think not," Peter replied, rather abruptly. "A bit too much to live up to."

I resisted the urge to point out he was hardly a Peter O'Toole, except perhaps in the drinking stakes, and continued with my own line in fantasy names. "Well, Michelle-Pfeiffer Enfield perhaps then?"

At this point, businessman from Burgess Hill (who was sitting next to Peter and reading a letter starting "Dear Mr Thomas..." which, since the initial on his briefcase were R.B.T, was presumably for him) decided to join in.

"Actually," he said "my parents named me after a film star."

"Which one?" I asked, regarding his greying, balding, middle-aged spreading form and the R.B. on the briefcase.

"Richard Burton," he said, smiling and obviously expecting us to comment on its appropriateness...