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Things I’d like to say to John Travolta …

  1. Man, were you hot in Grease. (Lanky hot.)
  2. I’m sincerely sorry to hear about Jett.
  3. What’s with the black monkey toupée? Lighten up the charlatan shade – you look like the creepy dude Minnelli momentarily-married.
  4. My bro-in-law met you once, said you’re très nice and normal.
  5. Also, I don’t believe you flashed your twig ‘n’ berries to a masseuse.
  6. That said, I can’t give you a free pass on Scientology (sorry).
  7. Remember your film, The Experts? I seriously can’t find that on DVD, like, anywhere.
  8. I forgive you for Look Who’s Talking.
  9. I forgive you for Look Who’s Talking Too, too.
  10. I love a good action movie but the ending to Face Off was way too long.
  11. Let’s do lunch – I’ll have my people call your people.

Dear Baron Munchausen …

It’s been too long since we last said farewell! I have a lasting image of you at the helm of the Good Lady Hepburn, full steam ahead … your pipe residing in its usual position and your hat askew (after passionately kissing the good lady, Hepburn).

Once I left you, I rode on to Montague’s (where things quickly went into the kind of disarray Mickey Rourke visually represents). I’m sure you’ve heard my tales of woe through Harvey Shiplitz and suffice to say (unlike Harvey’s eyebrows), they have not been exaggerated.

Our game of cribbage started out tamely enough but Colonel Hatty, who seems to have set up residence with Montague, was there and as you know, he has never really forgiven me for the game of poker which resulted in me inheriting his favourite toupee. (I have it framed in a glass cabinet along with a photo of Hatty, sans hair. He doesn’t seem to find it amusing however).

To cut a story less lengthy, there was some debate over who won the game (in truth, Hatty was the victor but I felt a mischievious urge to mess with the man, one that I cannot account for). A scuffle ensued, with Hatty somehow gaining the upper hand. I believe that I had no true understanding of how important that toupee was to Hatty, or I may never have red flagged the man. As it was, I lost the use of my legs in the fight. Hatty seemed to think it a fair exchange which, I believe, shows a disproportionate love of hair (don’t you think?)

Nevertheless, I remain in good spirits as I will soon be in Egypt once more, realising my dream of building my very own pyramid. My intention is to live there, once construction has been completed. This of course will be encumbered by the fact there will be no wheelchair ramps, but I feel that if the Pharaohs can do it … so too can I, my dear friend.

I hope this finds you well, please pass my regards along to the good lady, Hepburn.

Your faithful friend,

T.W.

Dear Franco …

Last night, you said I was the transit authority to your bus lane. Your cruelty reduced me to tears. It was hurtful, to say the least, but I chose to let it go.

But when you shouted after me into the cold night air, your words slapping my ears like day-old trout, that I’ve never been more than the James Cameron to your Spielberg – you crossed the line. I tried my best to think of how successful Titanic was (commercially at least); but you and I both know, there was enough room on that door for Leonardo and I can never forgive Kate for that.

So let me answer by saying – you are the Hugh Grant to my Sense and Sensibility; the Cher to my good taste; the expiry date to my cheese.

I will never forget the time we shared in Copacabana but at some point I need to say to you, there isn’t enough pineapple in the world. You were once the Carmen to my Miranda but the flame has undeniably burnt out, like a sparkler grasped too tightly in a chubby five-year-old hand. You will always be my first love; the one who taught me that musical theatre does have a point and that, while Jack Black can’t act, he’s still really funny.

Thank you for that. (No thanks for the tattoo of Popeye in drag, or my now immovable devotion to Andy Griffith. I suppose, some scars last a lifetime).

Please know that red is maroon without you.

You will always be, my Matlock.

Forever yours (not really), xxx

The Griff


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