Furry Breast Milk

July 2nd, 2009

As someone who spent the first 18 years of his life in Hull, East Yorkshire, you might think I’d fit right in with the Hollywood lifestyle and the general superficial glitz and glamour of Los Angeles. Well, in many respects you’d be dead right but since being here there have also been a number of incidents in which I’ve felt out of my comfort zone.

For example, I’m not sure if I’ll ever quite get used to Russell Brand on top of me in bed, waking me up by trying to breast-feed me. I suppose under analysis it may come from a sense of affection and protection that he feels towards me – even so, I think being encouraged to press my lips to the hairy matriarchal nipples of my male colleague is just something I’ll always struggle to manage.

On another occasion, Jack, Nik and I decided to play football on a local AstroTurf pitch. Afterwards, with our thirst suitably in need of quenching, we decided to stop for a drink at a local bar. Dressed in our respective Man United, West Ham and England shirts (my dear Hull City top is frankly too precious to waste on a mere kick-about) we advanced into that place brimming with post-match confidence and, for me at least, a feeling that out patriotic choice of attire would be judged as endearing, perhaps even cute. This feeling was not reciprocated. Other than a couple of charitable souls with whom we shared a nervous joke, the majority of the facial expressions in that bar pointed towards animosity and mockery.

I suppose in hindsight, our cocksure entrance could have been interpreted as three staunch Brits ardently proclaiming “We’re English you bastards”. We may as well have marched in there with the St George’s flag tattooed on to our erect penises, discussing how we’d just “kicked an American geezer down the apples and pears -stairs.”

In another football related incident, Jack and I were invited by a friend of Nik’s to take part in 5-a-side game. When enquiring as to the standard of the players we were told “average”. Again, with the benefit of hindsight, “average” is a difficult word to measure. I’m sure a cross-section of men would use the term to describe a whole range of different sized dinkles. In this context, “average” is not a word that should have be used to describe the English Premiership footballers with whom we were confronted. “Incredible” / “Superhuman” / “God” are words that should be used to describe the English Premiership footballers with whom we were confronted.

So with a disbelieving shrug of our shoulders and a retraction of our genitals, Jack and I joined an intimidating group of beast-men that included Everton and England defender, Joleon Lescott and former Spurs winger Wayne Routledge. Fortunately this story has no bitter ending and we both acquitted ourselves reasonably well. On one occasion I even managed to tackle Mr Lescott, as was evident, Jack tells me, from the overly noticeable grin on my silly face. Mind you, I’m sure the law of averages suggests I should have been more successful than I was – I imagine a bookmakers would give better tackling odds on a two year old child or static piece of coal.

On another occasion Jack, Russ and I visited the nightclub in which Christiano Ronaldo was recently pictured having a fruity ol’ time with Paris Hilton. Rumour has it he ordered two bottles of $17,000 champagne, which had they been made from the fizzy sweat of our Lord Jesus Christ, still seems pricey.

The venue was rammed with hundreds of sparkling, trendy youngsters, gyrating their boodies to bass-heavy R&B, which, as my idea of an evening out is inelegantly jumping up and down to a Fleetwood Mac medley, made me feel somewhat uneasy. The nightclub in question was the confusingly named, “My House.” Almost as if the owners had purposefully given the club a barmy identity in order to create confusing situations. Such as, conversing with a taxi driver:
“Take me to My House”
“Your house? We’re at your house”
“No, My House”
“Step out of the car please, sir”

Or, when flirting with a lady:
“So where are you taking me on our first date?”
“I want to take you to My House and show you my best moves”
“You filthy pig! I’m leaving”

Or, on the phone to the police:
“I want to report a sexual assault at My House”
“Stay at your house, sir and consider yourself under arrest”

In conclusion then, maybe it’s better that I avoid these uncomfortable LA activities and live a simpler life, here at the house, free from embarrassing obstacles, where I don’t feel awkward and my asthma won’t flare up. After all, how bad can Russell’s furry breast milk be?

By Producer Gareth