No Resemblance.

Dear Carmen, bless her, is pushing the notion that I look like Clint Eastwood. Oddly enough, when my mother was going through her terminal illness in hospital she asked for a photograph of me, so I took an up-to-date one. A nurse comes along and says ‘Ooh, doesn’t he look like Clint Eastwood?’

No I don’t. Can I make this abundantly clear just in case anybody’s interested, which I can’t believe they are but you never know. Clint Eastwood is two storeys taller than me, quite a bit older, and a hell of a lot bonier. I look like a veritable hobbit compared with Clint bloody Eastwood. I can narrow my eyes, roll the cheroot around and do the frown, but that’s as close as it gets.

This concerns me slightly. Unlikely as it is, there’s just the remotest possibility that I might get to meet one of you fine people in the flesh some day. I wouldn’t want you expecting Clint Eastwood, and then sniffing mightily and saying ‘What the f***..?’

Wouldn’t be very nice, would it?

And this has been a day lacking communication, so I’m in a bad mood.