A couple of my American buddies have given cause for concern this week. I have had to have a strong word with Paul Simon. I have loved Paul dearly ever since he and Art Garfunkel sang Cecilia about me (they couldn’t use “Mrs Cohen, she’s breaking my heart” because, apparently, it doesn’t scan). But Paulie has been in court this week after a scuffle broke out between him and his wife, the lovely singer Edie Brickell. From what I can gather the altercation wasn’t a particularly serious one — and fortunately Paulie is so tiny that it is possible to hold him off by placing your outstretched arm on his head. Still, he clearly has SJM (Short Jewish Man) syndrome and he has accepted my invitation to attend one of my award-winning support groups – if there are any others out there under five foot six who would like to get in touch for anger management counselling, please do — I can guarantee it is a very intimate (and very small) group.
Steven Spielberg, also not very tall, is one of my favourite directors. That man has done amazing things with sharks, small aliens and dinosaurs and deserves every plaudit he gets. But his next film is going to be The BFG, which stands for Big Friendly Giant, and no, it’s not a biopic about Arnie Schwarzenegger but an adaptation of the Roald Dahl book of the same name. As I’m sure most of you know, Mr Dahl was no big friendly giant but a distinctly unfriendly person if you happened to be Jewish. Stevie clearly knew what I was going to say because when I phoned he muttered something about being in a big hurry to get to casting. Still I suppose there is the rather delicious irony that Mr Dahl’s work will be in the hands of one of Hollywood’s most Jewish teams. And if Stevie gets me a ticket to the premiere, all will be forgiven.
This brings me to my latest initiative. So disappointed have I been with the behaviour of certain male Jewish celebrities that I am starting a new course for the training of Jewish princes. It comprises the basics, waiting patiently for your Significant Other to be ready to go out, never mentioning unruly hair, always paying for dinner, learning how to cook my favourite foods (er, I mean her favourite foods) and not complaining about the hours spent in Brent Cross when the football happens to be on — so just the usual stuff, then.
Having met Sir Alex at the CST lunch in Manchester I was minded to see how his protégé Ryan Giggsy got on in charge of Manchester United on Saturday. So probably for the first time in my life I turned on the Big Match Of The Day (or something like that) on Saturday night. I can report that he looked masterful, authoritative and splendidly turned out in his suit – if he were 10 years younger I might be interested. As for the game itself, Manchester were playing against some boys in yellow – no idea what happened, but there was a lot of cheering.
Mazeltov to George Clooney on his engagement to British human rights lawyer Amal Alamuddin. Now, there is a man who knows how to treat a woman — oh, the memories. Anyway, I have decided to let bygones be bygones and have put myself forward for one of the sheva brachot at the wedding. I still haven’t completely given up hope.
