'The early bird catches the worm' and other proverbs I don't understand. By Orlando Bloom

25th July 2024

ORLANDO Bloom, noted thespian, Mr Katy Perry and former elf, reveals the everyday proverbs which continue to leave him baffled.

A picture is worth a thousand words

On the set of The Lord of the Rings, I asked Peter Jackson to explain this proverb to me on every of the 438 days of principal photography. You’d think as an Oscar-winning director he’d know, but apparently not, and eventually his PA put a ‘cease and desist’ letter under my trailer door. To be on the safe side, I burnt all my books and now only look at pictures of books. Which I’m pretty sure is the gist of it. So it’s all good.

A watched pot never boils

It definitely does. I decided to test this claim myself. In fact I spent a large part of 2018-2020 doing so. Which also explains the large gap in my CV. I started by boiling one pot, then two, then up to a dozen on three cookers side by side. And watched every single one without blinking. My agent said I was mad. But consider this one debunked. A watched pot DOES boil. Or my name isn’t Orlando Jonathan Blanchard Copeland Bloom.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink

I’ve never read a proverb I’ve understood or used successfully in a sentence, and this one is particularly useless. I’m allergic to horses. Next.

The early bird catches the worm

Who am I in this proverb? The bird? Or what… a worm? You’ve got to be kidding me. I didn’t work my arse off for 20 years carving out an acclaimed acting career to be spoken to like that. You’ll be hearing from my legal team.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you

This one is just good general advice. I mean, don’t bite anyone. Ever. It’s common sense. One possible exception is in the bedroom, if your partner consents and is extremely persistent. But I’m more of a back-to-basics lover. Kiss, slip in a tongue, sneaky tit grab, feed the pony, stick it in, missionary, cry for an hour, cuddle. Don’t mess with a classic. As for the proverb – haven’t got the foggiest.

Two heads are better than one

Absolute bollocks. Try getting a patchy career as a leading man who hasn’t made a decent film since 2014 if you have TWO HEADS. There’s not a casting director in town who’d return your calls. You might have got a part in The Greatest Showman, but that bunch of freaks haven’t worked since. I include Zac Efron in that.

The pen is mightier than the sword

Perhaps if it’s one of those pens you turn upside down and the lady’s clothes come off. But in all other cases I’d prefer to have a big f**k off sword. Or a bow and arrow, like I had in The Lord of the Rings. Did I mention I was in those? Basically it was me who saved Middle Earth because if we’d lost the Battle of Helm’s Deep the orcs would have gone back and got Frodo. Anyway, what I wanted to say was: Peter Jackson, if you’re reading this can you email me about the thousand words thing? Thanks.

Laughter is the best medicine

Now this one I do get. Which is why I no longer take any forms of medicine.

A confused millennial tries to… party like they used to in the 90s

22nd July 2024

By Josh Gardner, who asked his father whether he was Blur or Oasis in the war

The 1990s were the greatest decade in history. For example, I was born in 1996.

And like all my generation, I pine for those halcyon days. Imagine swigging Two Dogs alcoholic lemonade at the OJ Simpson trial with the Spice Girls, or witnessing Bill Clinton get blown live on CNN. Radical indeed.

Most of all I yearn to party like the 90s. A vanished, romantic age of warehouse raves off the M5 and shoegaze, of snakebite-and-black in the Good Mixer then pissing in a doorway. So much class.

‘You could get enough molly to be off your face for days with just a fiver and a cheeky wink, and still have enough change left over for the 6am bus home,’ my history teacher used to tell us.

So, bored over summer, my friends and I resolved that we would it was 1999 and the preceding eight years. Beginning at home with Noel’s House Party, as was tradition in those times, we donned our garb.

Grace was in Buffalo platform heels and a mini-dress, Gareth wore anorak and bucket hat, I was in Global Hypercolour T-shirt and Tacchini shorts, and Sky wore a glass jar on her head like Thom Yorke. We were any typical 90s foursome.

A Google of ‘illegal 90s warehouse raves near me’ came up short, but there was bound to be a party popping in one of the many dormant units in the nearby industrial estate. After driving slowly in a mad joyride style round an estate, we set off in search.

Did we discover a rave? No. Did we do molly in a nearby field and cheer the sunrise? Yes. Was it good? Yeah, pretty much. By the end of the night I would definitely have elected Blair.

So, all 90sed out, I made my way home in traditional style: walking very carefully so Café del Mar volumen tres didn’t skip on my Discman. What a decade.