quite a coup. The world’s most famous and glamorous man, smiled his ultra-violet smile and said, “Katie and I were sitting around on the kitchen floor thinking of names when–”
I interrupted: “You sat on the kitchen floor? Oooh, you should be able to afford furniture by now, Tom, watch yer ’arris, mate, you’ll get terrible piles.” This was a lovely, daft little moment that went some way to deflating the sycophantic tide of pink helium balloons and baby toys that inundated the studio that day.
Amazing women turned up as guests on that show. Kelly Brook, so beautiful and comely that I’d be prepared to fight any one of her consistently burly lovers for the privilege of brushing a hair from her forehead – if it was one of my own pubic hairs. Sorry. That was childish. She is beautiful and unnerving and from Rochester in Kent, dammit – which means she’s normal and could handle me. Dannii Minogue further demonstrated the hitherto absent tabloid interest in me when she dubbed me a “vile predator” – the papers enjoyed that. I think during the interview I’d politely flirted, such was my remit, and Dannii had passed her condemnatory verdict on to the press. I learned that the media are a mercurial force even when meddling only in tittle-tattle. If flirting can see you adjudged a “vile predator”, what language remains for murderous paedophiles? I must be aware of these newspapers, I thought. Pink came on, she’s feisty and a giggle; Christina Aguilera is a bit too perfect; I’d feel guilty if I got an erection near her.
There were an abundance of famous, glorious women and with my hair-trigger heartbreak mechanism scarcely a show ended without me scrawling a regrettable poem on to the dressing-room mirror. I still have an unsophisticated notion that women are ministers of redemption, that one day in the arms of a perfumed saviour I’ll be rendered complete. Perhaps it’ll be Juliette Lewis – she came on, we got on great, I thought she might be the one – or Rihanna, I foolishly pursued one of her backing dancers; had I not I could even now be sheltering beneath the umbrella (ella, ella, ella) of her perfection. Whilst 1 Leicester Square did not provide me with a wife, it did as Nik had hoped propel me into a new realm of artistic possibility when I was “talent spotted” by one of the biggest comedy stars in history, Adam Sandler.
He came on as a guest, bringing with him, as most performers of his magnitude do, an entourage including his legendary agent, Adam Venit, some writers, Jack Giarraputo his business partner and a bunch of Teamster-looking mates. We prepared in the usual ad hoc fashion, with me fighting tooth and nail to not go and see the movie he was promoting, Click. Gareth had to try and persuade me to fulfil my basic, contractual obligations. “Come on, Russ. He won’t come on the show if you don’t watch his film. Please?”
“Why should I? What’s it about? A remote control that can alter reality? It can’t be done! I will not watch a film with such an unfeasible premise.”
Having my own show had reawoken the prima donna in me. “Can’t you watch it and then tell me what happened?”
“No, mate. His people insist.”
“Can’t you fast forward to tomorrow after the screening, so I don’t have to watch it?” Secretly I knew I was being a ponce, so I yielded and agreed to do my job, for which I was, presumably, well paid.
When Sandler came on I was struck by how mild, pleasant, charming and unassuming he was. This caused me to briefly feel a pang for having been such a git about the screening.
“I saw your film Click, Mr Sandler, and if the Academy ignore it they are fools.” The interview, as usual, suffered from having no real questions in it and from being conducted by a man who rather enjoyed the sound of his own voice and considered Hollywood A-listers a senseless distraction from the improvised monologue.
There’s a distinction between the American
I interrupted: “You sat on the kitchen floor? Oooh, you should be able to afford furniture by now, Tom, watch yer ’arris, mate, you’ll get terrible piles.” This was a lovely, daft little moment that went some way to deflating the sycophantic tide of pink helium balloons and baby toys that inundated the studio that day.
Amazing women turned up as guests on that show. Kelly Brook, so beautiful and comely that I’d be prepared to fight any one of her consistently burly lovers for the privilege of brushing a hair from her forehead – if it was one of my own pubic hairs. Sorry. That was childish. She is beautiful and unnerving and from Rochester in Kent, dammit – which means she’s normal and could handle me. Dannii Minogue further demonstrated the hitherto absent tabloid interest in me when she dubbed me a “vile predator” – the papers enjoyed that. I think during the interview I’d politely flirted, such was my remit, and Dannii had passed her condemnatory verdict on to the press. I learned that the media are a mercurial force even when meddling only in tittle-tattle. If flirting can see you adjudged a “vile predator”, what language remains for murderous paedophiles? I must be aware of these newspapers, I thought. Pink came on, she’s feisty and a giggle; Christina Aguilera is a bit too perfect; I’d feel guilty if I got an erection near her.
There were an abundance of famous, glorious women and with my hair-trigger heartbreak mechanism scarcely a show ended without me scrawling a regrettable poem on to the dressing-room mirror. I still have an unsophisticated notion that women are ministers of redemption, that one day in the arms of a perfumed saviour I’ll be rendered complete. Perhaps it’ll be Juliette Lewis – she came on, we got on great, I thought she might be the one – or Rihanna, I foolishly pursued one of her backing dancers; had I not I could even now be sheltering beneath the umbrella (ella, ella, ella) of her perfection. Whilst 1 Leicester Square did not provide me with a wife, it did as Nik had hoped propel me into a new realm of artistic possibility when I was “talent spotted” by one of the biggest comedy stars in history, Adam Sandler.
He came on as a guest, bringing with him, as most performers of his magnitude do, an entourage including his legendary agent, Adam Venit, some writers, Jack Giarraputo his business partner and a bunch of Teamster-looking mates. We prepared in the usual ad hoc fashion, with me fighting tooth and nail to not go and see the movie he was promoting, Click. Gareth had to try and persuade me to fulfil my basic, contractual obligations. “Come on, Russ. He won’t come on the show if you don’t watch his film. Please?”
“Why should I? What’s it about? A remote control that can alter reality? It can’t be done! I will not watch a film with such an unfeasible premise.”
Having my own show had reawoken the prima donna in me. “Can’t you watch it and then tell me what happened?”
“No, mate. His people insist.”
“Can’t you fast forward to tomorrow after the screening, so I don’t have to watch it?” Secretly I knew I was being a ponce, so I yielded and agreed to do my job, for which I was, presumably, well paid.
When Sandler came on I was struck by how mild, pleasant, charming and unassuming he was. This caused me to briefly feel a pang for having been such a git about the screening.
“I saw your film Click, Mr Sandler, and if the Academy ignore it they are fools.” The interview, as usual, suffered from having no real questions in it and from being conducted by a man who rather enjoyed the sound of his own voice and considered Hollywood A-listers a senseless distraction from the improvised monologue.
There’s a distinction between the American
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