Not Too Knightley

It’s not every day you get to meet a Hollywood film star. Unless of course, you are a Hollywood film star in which case I suspect the novelty quickly wears off. Until the drugs or a sycophantic PA kicks in. But, and this may disappoint you, I am no superstar. In fact, the most glamorous thing that has ever happened to me was travelling in a taxi that once carried the drummer from Bucks Fizz. At least that’s what the driver told me. So, it was with some nervous excitement that I prepared for tonight’s celebrity movie screening.

While many attractive women now have restraining orders against me, there are still the odd one or two that haven’t cottoned on the peril stalking them or whose lives have been blissfully unspoilt by any contact with me whatsoever. That offers me a surprising and frankly, dangerous, amount of freedom.

I sat on the front row. Little more than a quick lunge away from tonight’s beautiful guest. And my, she was beautiful. Thankfully no-one noticed my lolling tongue.

I had a cunning plan. Not quite as clever as my scheme to confuse Madonna into adopting me as her next African baby, but pretty smart all the same. Even if I say so myself. Now, without wanting to give too much away, it involved me talking to her and the question and answer session at the end of the film. I don’t want to bore you with the finer points of my technique but let’s just say all that raising my hand practise throughout the day certainly paid off.

Now, you’d think, after all those court appearances if nothing else, I’d be reasonably adept at public speaking. Sadly not. Admittedly tonight my elocution was further impaired by my floppy mouth organ and the torrent of saliva cascading down my chin, but even by my sparkling standards, this evening’s attempt at talking to an attractive woman reached a new level.

I had spent the day rehearsing my question. Something that would demonstrate my understanding of drama, highlight my wit and woo her with calm sophistication. You know, all my defining characteristics. Needless to say, the drooling helped no end.

My chance came in the silence that immediately follows any request for questions. I nearly chickened out but my reaction to being elbowed by my chaperone was mistaken by the compere as a signal.

“Yes, the man at the front with the pink lollipop. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not a lollipop. Yes, you.”

‘Hanna-umph-ey-wassa-isum?’ I said clearly.

“I’m sorry? What?”

‘Hiff-le-iddy-mi-on-fe-fi-fum?’ I repeated, making an effort to enunciate.

He looked at me. She looked at me. The rest of the audience looked at me (at least I could feel their eyes burning into the back of my head, which I think indicates some kind of interest).

‘Wizzum-cam-is-fella-do-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-day?’ I really couldn’t make it any plainer.

There was a pause. And silence. Obviously stunned by the calibre of the inquiry.

She simply nodded. There was curious look in her eye.

‘Hmm.’ She said. I’ll never forget it.

“Well, thank you. And anyone else?” the MC asked hopefully.

Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer. I could tell she was smitten. And frankly who could blame her? Until some insensitive oik, oblivious the first shoots of young love blooming at the front of the auditorium, asked some stupid question about motivation and the rehearsal process. I mean really.

All too soon the session was over. She left with what I can only describe as undue haste as I started over in her direction. Overwhelmed with emotion, I daresay.

But all was not lost. As I left the building, in a side street just behind, she was waiting. Now the untrained eye might assume she was hiding or waiting for a car. Not me. I knew. I had captivated her.

‘It was me!’ I said boldly, lunging towards her.

She recognised me, of course, but weakened by burning passion, stumbled backwards. Luckily her PA/ minder caught her and by some fluke accident opened the door of a passing cab and bundled her inside. I think she was as concerned as me. I banged on the door trying to alert the driver to his mistake but couldn’t seem to catch his attention.

I chased them down the street.

I caught a last fleeting glimpse of her as she craned back out of the rear window. She was clearly upset. Like I say: you can’t blame her.

Comments

[Michael]

Ahh - you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. As an extra in your tale ("the chaperone") I saw at first hand what took place that eventful night. It doesn't quite match up with your account.

You downplay your charming, intelligent and insightful question, then strangely fail to mention your sensible, pratical and entirely ethical plan to steal her water bottle to clone her from the DNA residue she left behind - probably just to tease you.

Tsk - the standards of reporting these days, I ask you!