December 13th 2005
10 stone 6, alcohol consumed: half an M&S Sherry Trifle, cigarettes smoked: 14 (was with Michael for much of the day).
Bumped into Mark Darcy. He reminded me about a former girlfriend of mine who tried to constantly gnaw away at my ego by telling me how Colin Firth was far superior to me in every conceivable way. Remembered that a different girlfriend did the same using Thierry Henri as an example. Thinking to myself that it's not long before some future girlfriend compares me unfavourably to Pol Pot.
Today was BBC TV Studio visiting day again as both Nick Ross and Fiona Bruce, who had kindly agreed to meet me several weeks ago, were recording an episode of Crimewatch UK. Ironic then that Michael should agree to accompany me on this one, as much about him is criminal, although not illegal.
"I'm covered in Skips crumbs" he said to me as we got out of the car to walk to the studios, as he'd just devoured a pack of the prawn flavoured snacks on the journey whilst resting the packet on his gut. "Great, that'll create a nice impression."
"You know Jules, it's amazing you've never been punched to the floor before you sarky git" and with that we strolled into Bush House or whatever it's called.
Once our chaperone-cum-aide-cum-fixer Laura arrived, we wound our way through the maze of corridors and ended up in a large blue and black themed studio, most appropriate I thought, where Michael spoke with pseudo authority about the complex lighting gantry or 'Grid' as I was corrected, that was hanging above our heads.
"Oh yes," he said to Laura, "I know a lot about this sort of stuff. I work in West End Theatre you see. People are always rushing up to me when I come out the stage door. They think I'm famous," (Oliver Hardy?) and with that sentence, I truly grasped the major difference between the two of us.
While I go around downplaying my relatively humdrum existence, career, lovelife etc, Michael has always done the opposite, loudly crowing about every aspect of his life, as if he was some sort of massive cock with a huge set of lungs. Cockerel, obviously I mean, what with the crowing and everything.
We didn't have to wait long for our two protagonists to arrive. Nick came over first and barely before I was able to thank him for agreeing to the handshake, laughing-boy next to me butted in with "I've actually met you before Nick, at Mr xxxxx's garden party." They had a bit of a chin wag, Michael in sycophancy heaven, before I wrenched Nick away and we got the photo out of the way.
Fiona then approached, and as in one of my earlier meetings, I was a little toungue-tied by the beauty and elegance of the person before me. Perhaps one day I might be able to wed someone like Fiona, although I guess it'd have to be a version of her with poor eyesight.
So once Michael had faffed with the focus for a minute or so this second photo was taken, following which we thanked the both of them heartily, particularly as we were promised a signed copy of that evening's script for the auction, and we bade them both sayonara.
As we drove away from White City, Michael did the inevitable "I've actually got a police record" joke ie (Walking on the Moon), at which point I told him not to stand so close to me. Even though we were sitting.