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Guest blog: Colin Firth

Well, all I can say is ‘gosh’. Well, I would probably say that if I was being interviewed by one of those dreadful LA queers who front those piss-poor Hollywood entertainment channels.

You see they love all that la-de-da, English gent, Mr Darcy bollocks over there. But that’s why I’m an actor, I can get them to buy into the fact that I’m a proper English toff – which of course I am, if you don’t count the moments I spend at home, sat on my arse, reading the Mail and shouting at the fucking wife to get her fat arse in gear.

As I’ve told many people down the years – acting is all about the craft. Until, that is, you see the size of your co-star’s fucking Wiinebago. I never forget the day I turned up on set for the first day of The King’s Speech. Suffice to say I wasn’t best pleased when I saw I had to have my make-up applied in a fucking portacabin. Meanwhile, that fucking Australian savage Geoffrey Rush is sitting in this huge trailer like a bastard. ‘Hello dear boy’ I said as I walked into his spacious caravanette. He then called me ‘mate’ and described his trailer as ‘bonzer’. I told him Shine was over-rated colonial bollocks but probably as good as one could expect from a bunch of bloody criminals and then went outside and let three of his tyres down. ‘Mate’. Fuck off.

Everyone tells you that picking up the Bronze Lama of Frankfurt, or whatever the fuck it’s called, is the most important of all the film awards, but in reality, when it comes down to hard ackers, the only one that counts is the Oscar. I had a long lunch with Stinker Pinker, my financial advisor, and he reckons that if I snatch the Big One then I could increase my annual earnings by anything up to 40%. You fucking beauty! Apparently it’s best if I sink the cash into some offshore account in bongo-bongo land to save me having to pay shit loads of tax so some grubby little tart in Gateshead can stuff her ghastly miniature chavs with chip butties and alcopops.

There are many things which make life worth living: the closure of heavy industry, that time Stinker and Parslow set a tramp alight on the Embankment and opening up the pages of the old FT to find that your shares in BAE Systems have risen several points overnight. But all these things put together can’t beat the buzz you get, the shot of adrenalin you feel when you tread the boards for the first time to play the Dane…. Bollocks! God, I love money.

Can’t wait for Oscar night now. Last year I was given the most fantastic goody bag, the contents of which I immediately sold on eBay for a huge fucking profit. K-k-k-k-k-k-kerching!

As told to Matt Owen

 

One woman's week, with Karen Fenessey

It makes me gag when I see celebrities getting on the news because of their latest booze-fuelled fixed penalty or suicide.

It’s so unfair they get all the glory even though they’ve not been to university and not had to live foot in mouth in some dank student village like the rest of us. It’s time to ask ourselves: do we hand them responsibility too freely?

When I discovered Jordan owned both stables and horses, I duly credited her with some degree of breeding. I admired her and even wanted to be her because I thought she was trying to lower her carbon footprint. But after watching the documentary What Katy Did Next I learned that she also owns several humungous Jeeps. So what is the point of the horse?

I’m just an ordinary girl trying to make ends meet so I don’t own frivolities such as horses, but anyone who knows me will tell you I never commit to an opinion until I am 110 per cent sure it is true  and so naturally I sought the help of a visually impaired friend. He has a sizeable retriever and after a long afternoon of controlled experiments, I realised that equestrianism is easy and that being Jordan is a sham which requires no special skills. Meanwhile Martin Clunes is just dead to me. I feel so lost.

On the other side of the pond, Oprah Winfrey thought she was being extremely generous when she gave away 275 Volkswagen Beetles to her audience a few weeks ago. But she’s being just as negligent about the planet as Jordan. How will she feel when the news arrives of those 275 extra drive-bys in the nearby precincts?

Jordan’s inane whims and Oprah’s preposterous gestures are tearing up the fabric of society: How long a trail of husbands and noxious gases will there be before our famous friends start learning the consequences of their actions?

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I’m loving Channel 4’s My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding! Gypsies have really moved with the times – even using social networking sites such as Facebook to arrange mating rituals in car parks around the country.

But something in me hankers for the olden days where starry-eyed pikey types found their way to the car park using only their sense of smell and touch. Facebook is fraught with risks – I’m sorry to report that I became the latest victim of ‘frape’ in my local Starbucks this week. Having watched the car park scene where 15 year-old Cheyenne has a pretty forceful encounter with a mischievous tink in a darkened bin house, I know she understands my feelings of humiliation and injustice about this, except somehow in a more physical way.

 

 

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