Some forty years ago, I got a free meal for being mistaken for someone else. The staff in a well-known Indian restaurant in London mistook me for a jockey. One asked where I was from, to which I truthfully replied "Newmarket". There then followed the question was I a jockey. Saying "No" was taken as a modest evasion of admitting that I was, because I could see the staff in a huddle pointing at me and having an animated conversation. They then brought the visitors' book, at which point the woman at the next table leant over and asked quietly " I hope you don't mind me asking, but who are you?" to which I replied "I have no idea !" I was then faced with guessing who to sign as, but, as I had no idea who I was, I simply put an anonymous scrawl as a signature, the delighted manager took the book away, waived the bill, and I left.
To this day, I don't know who I was mistaken for. Being in Newmarket and peripherally connected with racing, I knew a number of jockeys but I didn't, to my mind, look like any who was at all well-known. Plainly the staff couldn't put a name to the face either, which was hardy surprising!