HOLY MOLY
You may remember the story last week about a certain fine British actor who was so obsessed with sex that he took advantage of a ten minute theatre interval to indulge himself, before returning to the stage with semen caked on his trousers. Further tales have reached us about the gland young man of British theatre. Earlier in his career he was renowned for being difficult to work with. That is until he had spilled his seed, after which he was as playful as a pussycat. Unfortunately, said milking was required at least three times a day or he would descend into a black rage and be a nightmare to work for, or with. At the opening night of one show it became clear to those in the know that the actor was somewhat backed-up in the trouser region, hence his snarling responses to questions from journalists. And it was plain to see that this would, without doubt, adversely influence the tone of the reviews the following day. His PR woman did the decent thing and took one on the chin for the troupe, taking the actor into a nearby cupboard and administering a soothing massage. Within five minutes the thespian was charm personified, his personality as dainty as a Persian cat pissing on silk. The actor enthralled the waiting critics with his measured views of the performance and his wonderful bonhomie. With the added bonus that the PR woman had ensured that the front of his trousers did not appear to be covered in 'greasepaint'.
Methinks: Ralph Fiennes
