* It’s been such a terrifying, confusing week for the poor people of Ukraine that I thought I must go and be with them, despite the fact that their ancestors pillaged my ancestors. Plus, even at this time of great distress, there are some great resorts on the Black Sea, the weather is great and hotels are surprisingly empty. Anyway, I was expecting a call from Pooty Poot (aka Putin) as soon as Smersh clocked that I was in town. And, sure enough, he was on the phone. “Mrs Cohen, we have talks planned. I need help — you sort out crazy Ukrainians.” According to Pooty, the only problem is that the Ukrainians are in denial about the fact that Crimea is really in Russia. He says he is merely helping them confront their trauma. “They see smiling Red Army soldiers, they not make no fuss. Simples.”
* My other big mission was to make sure that my old friend Garry Kasparov was well. Much as I love Pooty, he doesn’t really enjoy the banter that goes along with democracy. So when Garry voiced a few opinions on the Russian political process, Pooty sent Smersh to beat him up. I finally caught up with Garry in Croatia where he is now domiciled. Obviously I wasn’t going to play him at chess, despite being one of the best in my class at school. However, I can report that he is fairly handy at draughts as well. So why of all the countries in the world did he choose Croatia? Garry wouldn’t give any reasons but I happened to notice that they have a chess board on their flag.
* I was so excited when Mila Kunis phoned me last week to tell me the happy news about she and Ashton Kutcher tying the knot. Ten minutes into the conversation, after she had described the ring (it’s a big stone, natch), I happened to ask her where the chuppah is going to be. “Ah,” Mila said, “slight problem there, Ashy kinda isn’t Jewish. I don’t suppose you could have The Chat with him.” I now have Ashton’s mobile number and have sent a preliminary text. If I have anything to do with it, he will be conversant with the Talmud very soon. I even had a little word with my dear friend Morrie Kirstenbaum, LA’s mohel to the stars…
* Talking of elfin beauties, I bumped into darling little Natalie Portman during the Oscars — or rather she bumped into to me. “Mrs Cohen,” she exclaimed, “those sequins, wow, what a dress, where on Rodeo Drive did you get that?” So I let her into a secret. Marks & Sparks in Brent Cross. I’m sure I saw one in her size. Watch this space.
* I’ve just been leafing through Unbreakable, Sharon Osbourne’s latest instalment of her autobiography. Sharon and I go way back. I was a groupie to a lot of the bands that her Jewish dad, Don Arden, managed back in the ’60s, so Shaz and I kind of grew up together. But reading through this was shocking. Apparently she and Ozzie drank a lot… and there were drugs. I mean, who knew?
* I had a call from Scarlett Johansson a week or so back. She said she’d been feeling rather bloated and a tiny bit sick and wondered if I had any advice? I said it might be an idea to cut down on the amount of Sodastream promos she was doing, although props to her for supporting them. Then I learned she was expecting a Scarlett Junior. How effervescent!
