Just got back from the gym where I was very distracted by a set of massive biceps. Hey-zeus! So it seems that some men’s magazine wants to include moi in their line-up of UK agony aunts, or sex-experts or y-shaped gurus or something. I am not sure if this is something I want to do.
Gone, thank God, are the days when folks would ask for ye old autograph. I mean, nice but embarrassing. I have not cured cancer, although I have wished it on a few people (joke. C’mon!).
There is of course something strange about one’s friends famouses-watching. Last night at dinner at the Lebanese place Kenza (with belly-dancers that make even gay men and non-lesbians think with the little head. My friend sneered, ‘I didn’t think it would be a floor show.’ Awww, come on! I’d love to be one of those girls, all smooth and creamy and shaking their tails) my friend said he saw none other that Jamie Oliver (who, apparently, has gained some weight, joining old Nigella in the lumpen stakes) in the waiting room.
Wow. Jamie Oliver’s teeth! Imagine what they’ve done! And I didn’t even chip in that my dentist worked on Richard Gere’s chipped tooth, that’s how restrained I was. I mean, really… Do we care who has the celebrity dentist? What will it be next? Famous cars? Of course I’d win there too because I co-owned Graham Norton’s first car, I kid ye not.