I have a tale about the master wig wearer, Terry Wogan.
Wogan used to have a house in South Bucks, doubtless useful for working in London. One night when I was in TVP a mate of mine in a neighbouring division was sent there.
He knocks on the door and Wogan, bald as a coot, answers.
"Oh, er, hello Sir", said my friend, a little confused. "I'm here to see Terry Wogan?"
"Oh no officer (imagine an exaggerated Irish accent). He's my Brother. I'll go get him for you", upon which the door closes.
A minute or so later the door is opened by the same bloke, Terry Wogan, but he's now wearing a hastily applied rug on his noggin.
And that, my friends, is a true story.