Experience: I won a Timothée Chalamet lookalike contest
When I first saw the flyer for the Timothée Chalamet lookalike contest last October, I thought it was a joke. Lookalike contests were not mainstream yet. It was also taking place in New York's Washington Square Park – a place I usually associate with chaos. But last year a TikTok of me at a London barbershop went viral before because people thought I resembled Timothée. So, a day before the contest, I headed to a charity shop and picked out an outfit that made me look like Timothée's Willy Wonka. Why not?
I was shocked by the size of the crowd on the day. There were thousands there and I was swarmed by people wanting photos. Before the contest even began, the police had arrived to shut it down. We relocated to a nearby park. It was later announced that Timothée had crashed the contest but left when the cops arrived. I missed his visit entirely.
Once the contest began, we were asked to complete a series of activities, including a bizarre Timothée-themed Q&A. Eventually, they narrowed down the contestants to me and a lookalike named Zander, who was dressed in a Dune-inspired outfit. Whoever got the loudest cheer would win. At that point, I was pretty calm. I thought Zander had a good shot of winning, too, as he looked a lot like Timothée.
After they announced I'd won, hundreds of cameras went off in front of me. The sensory overload was next level. The reporters were aggressively fighting over who would speak to me first. To top it all, I had to walk around Manhattan carrying a 6ft trophy and a massive $50 cheque.
I was invited on famous talkshows, like The Drew Barrymore Show, and fast-food companies reached out to me to film sponsored content. A highlight was attending this year's Golden Globes. I was with my mum when I received my invitation, via Instagram DM from CBS, which was broadcasting the event. My mum and I both lost it.
This would be my second interaction with Timothée, as I had already met him at a screening of the film A Complete Unknown, which I was also invited to. I had been lucky enough to sit in the front row and when Timothée came out to greet the crowd, I said: 'I kind of look like you.' I did not mention the lookalike contest, but he turned to me and asked: 'What place did you get?' After I told him, he asked for a photo with me. You'd think it would be the other way round.
Before the Golden Globes, CBS flew me out to LA. On landing, I went out for a breakfast burrito, and the waiter told me I looked like Timothée. He was so stunned to learn I was there for winning the lookalike contest that he gave me my meal for free.
At the Globes, I walked the red carpet with the winner of the Glen Powell lookalike contest. We stood there for three hours, holding signs that read: 'I won a lookalike contest and now I'm at the Golden Globes.' We spent most of the time looking at each other in disbelief, surrounded by the world's most famous celebrities.
I thought meeting Timothée was off the cards. But just before the ceremony kicked off, he dashed through the red carpet. He stopped to acknowledge me – something he wasn't doing for anyone else. For a second time, he asked for a picture. I was grateful as he didn't have to do that.
I watched the ceremony from the trophy engraving room. I took full advantage of the unlimited food and drink, and ate about 30 lamb chops. The voice actor for Moana came up and said, 'Oh my god, you won the lookalike contest! Fuck, yeah, you did!' But I didn't recognise many people who approached me for pictures. The CBS team had to tell me who they were. I'd just think: 'Wow, that's insane.' It was hands-down the best night of my life.
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Later, Saturday Night Live asked me to feature me in a promo for a show Timothée was hosting, but I was in Europe and couldn't make the 12-hour turnaround. They cast someone else who wasn't even at the contest. I was disappointed, of course, but that's how this industry works. I'm optimistic about future opportunities, but even if that was the peak, I'm still grateful for all the cool things I got to do.
As told to Maria Vieira
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Today, the vast industry of Roger Federer Inc. continues to thrive, peddling the seductive myth that you too can be like Roger, eating the same exquisite confectionery and sipping the same Moët champagne. Just as he did with his single-handed backhand, an art exhibit in itself, he is curating a style built on an elusive ideal. To study him up close is to see how assiduously he maintains his own mystique, treating his thousandth sponsor meet-and-greet as if it is his first. In Augusta, he patiently made each of Mercedes' top-tier clients feel like the most important person in the room. You wonder, however, if this life of schmoozing the high-rollers can sustain him indefinitely. Is it making him, dare one say it, a little listless? There was a suspicion of this at the Masters when, tiring of being asked about the verdant fairways, he said: 'Enough already with the golf. Seriously, I would love to start playing tennis again two or three times a week, getting myself back on an exhibition court, maybe filling up a few nice stadiums around the world. The training, I miss it a bit, to be honest.' When Federer announced he was retiring with his usual immaculate choreography, a script with the 'RF' logo on his desk and replicas of Wimbledon's golden Challenge Cup in the trophy cabinet behind him, he made an emotional promise to his fans, declaring: 'I will never leave you.' In a sense, this pledge has yet to be fulfilled. Yes, he has had various valedictions at Grand Slam tournaments, but none with a racket in his hand. The only exception he made was for the Princess of Wales in 2023, as the two exchanged groundstrokes in a video acknowledging the Wimbledon ball boys and girls. Federer's caution has been due largely to the fragile condition of his left knee, which deteriorated to such an extent in his later years that his swansong, in doubles with Rafael Nadal at the 2022 Laver Cup in London, looked precarious until the last minute. According to Roddick, he was suffering so much at the 2021 event in Boston that his crutches were being hidden from public view. The pathos of that ending has kindled an intense public appetite for him to return, even in the hit-and-giggle exhibition format. As Roddick puts it: 'Everyone wants a chance to see him one last time. He was hurt, we got him for a doubles match, and then that was it. It doesn't feel like enough.' A persuasive argument, of course, is that Federer owes his disciples nothing, having elevated his craft to such an unheard-of standard that his footwork was likened to Nureyev's and his artistic vision to that of Picasso. How much more breathless adulation does anyone need? The issue is that the demand to see him don his tennis whites again, even at almost 44, is off the charts. When he embarked on an express circuit of Latin America in 2019, he banked £7.7 million in six days, packing out stadiums from Santiago to Quito, Mexico City to Buenos Aires, with the fervour around his Argentina date compelling Diego Maradona to tell him: 'You were, you are, and will always be the greatest. There is no other like you.' All this was accomplished without Nadal, his perfect foil, across the net. As soon as they joined forces in Cape Town in 2020, in aid of Federer's foundation, the occasion drew over 51,000 people, the largest attendance ever recorded for a tennis match. You can imagine the rock-star reception they would attract if they decide, as men of independent means, to head out on the road for a reunion tour. This is why the idea holds such appeal for Federer, who, for all his sincere efforts at humility, has an acute appreciation of his worth. The grandeur of his entrances at Wimbledon in 2009, when he would peel off a multi-pocketed military jacket to reveal a diamond-white waistcoat with a golden Nike swoosh, still constitutes perhaps the most ostentatious flex in sport. The Laver Cup, which he conceived both as a tribute to past legends and as tennis's answer to the Ryder Cup with its 'Europe versus World' dynamic, could hardly be called an exercise in understatement either. The lavish spectacle, with non-playing team members watching courtside on leather banquettes, smacks of a giant 'RF' trade fair, with fan zones dedicated exclusively to approved sponsors hawking Federer's cars, Federer's clothes, Federer's sunglasses. Even the deckchairs were emblazoned with Swiss marketing. Federer has been desperate to imbue the event with passion and sporting significance, to the point of once instructing Alexander Zverev, in full view of the cameras: 'I want a fist pump or a 'let's go', every f------ point you win. And every point you lose, you f------ take it.' The irony was that he had never acted this way in team sport before, even when flying the flag for Switzerland at the Davis Cup. It illustrated the hollowness of the enterprise, with Federer trying to make a spectacle that essentially meant nothing look as if it meant everything. It is the fundamental problem with the Laver Cup, as it rolls on to San Francisco in September: that for its pretensions to be sport of substance, it serves little purpose beyond burnishing Federer's cult of personality. The pity is that he still resists any shift into television commentary, where he could offer a degree of technical expertise unparalleled in the booth. He has admitted that he did consider it, only shelving the plan when he realised how critical he would have to be of the players. Perhaps his most impulsive move was to decide, six years ago, to invest in a then little-known Swiss footwear company called On, whose creators first experimented by crafting shoes from lengths of garden hose. Federer called them to arrange dinner, clarifying that this time he was seeking not sponsorship but a personal investment. Having negotiated three per cent equity, he used his international profile to turn a Zurich start-up into an £8.2 billion behemoth, with its own limited-edition range christened 'The Roger'. When On was listed on the New York Stock Exchange in 2021, 31.1 million shares were sold at £17.47 each, giving Federer a stake worth £262 million – nearly three times the total he amassed in 24 years as a tennis professional. It is at this point that you wonder if Federer's life is celestially ordained, with even his rare gambles somehow striking gold. The reality is more that he understands, better than just about any sports star in history, what his strengths are and exactly how he can monetise them. Even in elder statesman mode, he is tennis's version of an omniscient being, hovering above all he surveys. Whether it is using shoes to catapult himself towards billionaire status, or enlisting singer Ellie Goulding to sing at his last match over a video montage of his greatest hits, Federer is the man who orchestrates his own drama, who writes the scripts of which nobody else could dream.
