Can’t stand the sight nor sound of the man. Nothing personal, understand. So you know where we are straightaway. It’s just that I do wish they’d get off my back, these women who hail me from the other side of George Street and keep mistaking me for George Clooney.
“Hey George,” they holler, “give us that smile. Or an autograph if we’re lucky.”
I hate Clooney. For his hair for a start. Always have. “My dad has his full head of hair,” he says, “and it looks pretty good.” So I hate his dad, too.
However, I can’t be wholly negative talking about his family. I’ve been in love with George’s aunt, Rosie, for her singing. A jazz singer whose clutch of classic songbook albums are to be prized by connoisseurs of the art.
You’re going to be seeing a lot of coy George (his latest girlfriend is a professional wrestler), forthcoming films include The Monuments Men, opening next Month.
About the aforementioned hatred, George Clooney can’t be all that bad when he’s telling us that his only perpetual pal is his cocker spaniel.
Afterwords . . .
. . . from the exceptionally fragrant Julia Roberts: “In the early days some people were not happy because we were happy. There were remarks about Danny [her husband] being a cameraman, implying that he was not good enough for me. But our jobs were not married to each other. I have said this a thousand times – I just think I am the same relatively simple person that I have always been. I just have this flashy, wacky job.”