Matthew Rhys - Cymru Am Byth in America!

Who would win a wet cotton shirt competition? Colin Firth or Matthew Rhys? 

It was the question on viewers’ lips when it was announced that Rhys is to reprise the role of Pride and Prejudice’s Mr Darcy, in a BBC adaptation of the PD James’s sequel, Death Comes to Pemberley.

   

The 38 year old actor from Cardiff is sitting in the Pali Hotel on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood, pondering the answer, but it’s a fairly quick response: ‘I’d say Firth.’

   

It was Firth’s Mr Darcy, emerging from the lake, all tousle-haired, with white shirt clinging to his fine, muscled chest, that set female hearts racing back in Andrew Davies’s sexy adaptation of the Jane Austen 1813 classic back in 1995. So can we also hope for a repeat performance of the iconic scene from Rhys? ‘Definitely not. Colin is so rooted in the national psyche, it would be almost sacrilegious to try to do it; it’s a level of comparison I wouldn’t want. He looked good. Really good. It’s not as if he looks bad now, but that scene resonated so much.’

    

Comparisons are nevertheless inevitable, not least in the physical similarity between the two men – dark, handsome, great eyes, and the ability to hold a fixed expression that makes the ladies swoon. Rhys was chosen, says Ben Stephenson, head of BBC drama, because of his good looks and a ‘likeable but dark edge’ as an actor. ‘We did not want a Milk Tray advert kind of handsomeness.’

   

Rhys still feels a little apprehensive at taking on a role so fixed in the minds of viewers. ‘It’s what I found when I played Dylan Thomas (in the 2008 film, The Edge of Love). Everyone had an idea about him, even though there had never been any footage, so nobody really knew. It’s the same with Darcy. So many people love Pride and Prejudice, they have a very strong idea of who or what Darcy should be. Coupled with that is the fact that Laurence Olivier played him, Colin Firth nailed it, as did Matthew MacFadyen, so there are instant comparisons to be drawn. My only saving grace is that it’s not Pride and Prejudice, it’s Pemberley, it’s 6 yrs on and he’s a very different Darcy.’

   

Anything remotely sexual (‘at least, on screen’) is definitely off the agenda five years after Darcy’s marriage to Elizabeth Bennett, but they have two children, so something must have gone right (‘although you can’t categorically say that both the kids are his’). The toned down nature of the couple’s attraction can be attributed to the adaptation being a family show.

   

Currently single (he claims, although he is intensely private about his personal life), he believes that we are all searching for that one person. ‘I have romantic, rose-tinted notions that someone’s out there – I just wish she’d hurry up and knock on my door.’ 

   

Rhys clearly has a place in his heart for the man he is trying to get to understand (not least, in the love department) where others, on first impressions, fail. ‘I think he comes from somewhere else. First of all, when I approach a character, I never try and give them negative characteristics; I always try and look for where the empathy lies – justifications. I think with Darcy, it’s all to do with Pemberley and the name he’s inherited. He’s incredibly duty bound and he’s incredibly honest – which is why Elizabeth first hated him.’

   

While Rhys sees his own romantic nature in Darcy, he is less sure whether he shares the man’s moral core. ‘It’s been tested . . . I struggle . . . but I’ve not always been as well behaved as I should be. Darcy has a strong sense of honour – that’s why they call what we do acting.’

   

While we await the smouldering Mr Darcy, viewers can catch a very different Rhys in The Americans, currently showing on ITV in the UK. Created by Joe Weisberg and first broadcast in January this year on the FX cable channel in the US, it is the story of two KGB spies, in an arranged marriage, posing as Americans in suburban Washington DC during Reagan’s Cold War era. While Elizabeth Jennings (Keri Russell) remains firmly loyal to the motherland, Phillip (Matthew Rhys) is increasingly attracted to the American way of life, which his two children (who remain oblivious to their parents’ true identity) have embraced.

   

It is an astonishing performance by Rhys, who employs different guises and accents with seeming ease. He moves between love scenes and scenes of extreme violence with a fluidity that one minute has viewers’ hearts pounding, and the next melting for the character’s tenderness.

   

The show is a huge hit in the US, where Rhys has become a star following his portrayal of gay Kevin Walker in Brothers and Sisters, which ran for five seasons. It required him to get his kit off and engage in relatively explicit sex scenes with his lover, Scotty (Luke Macfarlane). There was only one thing he found difficult about the scenes – ‘Stubble. That was the first thing I remember thinking. Then you just approach it as you would any part.’

   

In The Americans, he’s getting his kit off – again. The KGB has never been so sexy; so sexy, it makes you want to defect. Where once there were men in overcoats growling in Russian, now there is Rhys’s torso engaged in a variety of sexual poses with different women.

   

His seeming lack of shyness and undoubted good looks (he has a ridiculously perfect mouth) have turned Rhys into a sex symbol on both sides of the Atlantic – an observation he greets with uproarious laughter. ‘It continues to make me laugh; I don’t know anyone who genuinely believes they are a sex symbol.’

   

He hasn’t always been confident about his looks, either. ‘I was a massively self-conscious as a kid. I had bad skin, bad acne and the multitude of insecurities that every teenager has. I overcame them by pretending to be other people. It was a natural progression into this ridiculous business.’

   

It took a long time for Rhys to feel comfortable about playing out sex scenes and developing the confidence to take his clothes off in front of the camera. ‘The first job where you have to do that, you’re terrified; you just feel so vulnerable. The second time is pretty scary, too. By the third time, it’s more familiar. You just think, I’m gonna have to do this.’

   

It’s a far cry from the shy 25 year old who, playing opposite Kathleen Turner in The Graduate in 1995, could not bring himself to look at the 45 year old’s naked body onstage once. What he did learn, however, was how to effect his American accent, as Turner would correct him when he got it wrong. Having also grown up with American TV shows such as Starsky and Hutch, Rhys’s accent could, these days, easily pass for a native’s and is undoubtedly a factor in his having been able to land top jobs in the US, where so many others have failed.

   

Like Phillip in The Americans, he is now a foreigner (proudly Welsh - his first language) trying to be an American, while acknowledging the need to keep a realistic head on his shoulders. 

‘This place is like an asylum. It’s an industry driven town and it’s like Klondike – that gold rush fever. Everything is possible, and I love that about the place; it is the land of eternal optimism, and it’s great. You can chase your dreams; you can follow your dreams until your last day. There is that thing in the air, that mercurial thing that anything is possible here; but on the flip side, where I come from, you carry your sack of salt on your back, because you take a pinch of it every second of the day.’

   

Rhys’s down to earth attitude, delightful nature and great humour make him a joy to work with – everybody on both sides of the Atlantic says so, and nobody has a bad word to say about him; but there are things that rile him. ‘I don’t deal with diva behaviour very well – any sort of rudeness or ignorance; arrogance doesn’t sit well with me – or injustices; for example, if somebody’s being ill-treated because of hierarchy on the set.’

   

His lack of grandiose behaviour rooted in realism has ensured ongoing success. While his acting skills were honed at RADA, he carries a Welsh modesty with him that is borne of both family and country. ‘As a race, the Welsh are not known for their arrogance, and we have a healthy attitude – an ability to smash it out of anyone who does have it. But we do suffer from small nation syndrome sometimes. I think we could do with a healthy dose of confidence. But you know, there’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance.’

   

His modesty is also abundantly apparent in his ability to recognise external factors that have contributed to his success. 

‘I don’t say this glibly, but so much of this business is luck – massive, massive luck, and I’ve just been incredibly lucky in the parts that I’ve been given and in the timing when they’ve come about and I’ve been able to do them. Because as much as you sit down at the beginning and you leave drama school and you say This is what I want my career to be, there’s no way on God’s green earth that it’ll pan out the way you want. And another great liberating day is when you realise you have very little control over your career unless you’re Tom Cruise – A Listers are the only ones who can go This is what I’ll do next. You’re at the mercy of the gods.’

   

At the moment, the gods are smiling very kindly on him. When he finishes filming Pemberley, it’s straight back to New York to film series two of The Americans, which is already being tipped to pick up dozens of awards – including several for Rhys.

   

As for the future, he’s not sure, although he feels that he will in all likelihood return to the UK. ‘I feel like I’ve been on location for eight years. I keep feeling someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and say “Come on, time to go home.” I’ve no idea where the future lies. Given the employment situation in the US and Britain, you just go where the work is these days.’

   

Until then, he is just looking forward to taking up residence at Pemberley where, filming in Yorkshire, he will be able to return home often to friends and family in Wales. 

Maybe, in the rugby club, he’ll bet getting his kit off for the lads. 

And why not. He’s done it for everyone else.

Happy Father's Day, US

On Sunday, it is Father’s Day in both the US and the UK and, as with all celebrations and public holidays, there is no escaping the event.

    

This year, as the past four, I am in LA, and everywhere I walk, there is the promise of gifts, drinks and meals at special prices – deal after deal, and every one of them encouraging you to spend, spend, spend on that special man in your life. Every celebration here dwarfs its equivalent in the UK, and some are all the more painful for doing so.

    

It is over 23 years since I last sent my dad a Father’s Day card, and this day more than any other is particularly poignant and has been so ever since he died in 1990 at the age of 60, and the celebratory images in shop windows never lose their impact.

     

Twenty-three years since the first Father’s Day after his death passed with a gut-wrenching sobbing and feeling of resentment towards children buying cards and gifts for their dads. This year, as every other, flower and gift services to which I have subscribed have been reminding me to send something to Dad, despite my having told them, as the first Father’s Day approached after his death, how much their automated prompt had upset me. 

Even the online Apple Store, which I seem single-handedly to be keeping in business these days, now suggests Father’s Day gifts. This year, it’s suggesting an iPad Touch or an iPad Mini. Or there are headphones and cameras – and a “Fuel” band, whatever that is.

     

But the things my dad loved were not computers, movies and music. They were not nights spent down at the local pub with his mates. They were not flash holidays, fast cars and other material goods bought only to keep up with and surpass the Joneses. 

What my Dad loved most was his family. 

My mum, my brother and me. 

And now, every Father’s Day, I try to put aside the immense sadness I still feel at his not being here and celebrate the fact that I was blessed with such a kind, thoughtful, strong and loving man who, all these years on, continues to have such a huge, positive impact on my life.

     

Dad was born in Cardiff, the eldest of five boys, and met Mum at a dance in the city’s Sophia Gardens. Mum wrote in her diary that Dad had “funny eyes”, but she soon overcame any doubts and they were married when she was 21 and he 24.

    

The last birthday party he attended would be his last. On his 60^th, in March 1989, he had just left Bristol’s Frenchay Hospital where he had been in and out since 1987. He was pleased to be home in time for the celebrations, but his hands looked older, as if, in spirit, they were still in Frenchay, merely on loan until the day came for them to be returned permanently. Outside the abnormality of the ward and back home, they seemed more lined and appeared to have taken on a yellow tinge. The fingernails, as always, were perfectly trimmed, with not a speck of dirt.

“Hi, Gaggie Nennens,” he said, greeting me at the front door. It was his pet name for me when I was a child and he started using it because when people used to ask my name, the mispronounced words came out as: “Gaggie Nennens.”

   

The party felt like a farewell: a rehearsal for the funeral we all suspected was not too far away. When the guests had gone and he was ready for bed, I kissed him goodnight at the top of the stairs and was shocked to feel the smallness of his frame in his pyjamas, bones drowning in blue cotton. When I held him close, the softness gave way to small, sharp points bursting out of his back. This was not the body that lifted me up to Georgie in his budgerigar’s cage, saying “Night, night, Georgie”; nor the hands that held my clammy forehead over the toilet bowl when I was sick. Dad was slipping away to a place he had not yet been, and I was helpless to pull him back. The more I tried, the further he seemed to fall, all the time shrinking, shrinking, and it tore me apart to feel my father so small in my arms. But the inner strength that had always been him was still there; he did not seem like a man who wanted to die.

   

I was always Gaggie Nennens to Dad, just as I would always be the little girl who was never old enough to cross the road by herself. Well into my twenties, when I went home and would venture out for, heaven forbid, a pint of milk, he would warn: “Be careful crossing the road.” When we went for a drink, after two minutes he would be wiping his eyes, as if he had never even recovered from the fact that I learned to speak.

   

Dad was an intensely emotional person, whose feelings did not reveal themselves in outbursts, but in still, quiet moments when the tears would come at the slightest prompting. He would be the first to cry at Lassie on a Sunday afternoon when we sat watching TV as a family; he could never talk about his parents without crying; and when our pet poodle Emma died, he was grief-stricken for months.

   

He blamed himself for not cleaning out the boiler flue that killed Emma by carbon monoxide poisoning. He and Mum had wondered why my brother, who was also near the flue, was sleeping almost to the point of rigor mortis, so in fact Emma saved his life. But Dad never forgave himself and, when we had our next dogs (two, to assuage the guilt still further), he was particularly soft on them.

   

Sally the Chihuahua and Tara the poodle lived longer than their predecessor (indeed, they outlived Dad), largely as a result of Dad’s solicitations. When Dad was taken ill, they had, between them, two good eyes, six good legs, one and a half tails, one womb and no properly functioning bladder. Where Mum would put down one square of the Bristol Evening Post for both dogs for their nocturnal habits and then berate them for the spillage, Dad put down the equivalent of the New York Times. When he was in hospital, his role as acting urologist to the dogs was probably the main thing they missed. That, and his giving each of them a saucer of coffee in the living room last thing at night.

   

If Dad’s love for the dogs was revealed in such small acts of kindness, it was multiplied a hundredfold when it came to his children. He always treated us equally and also could not bear for him and Mum to have anything without sharing it with us. On the rare occasions when they had a Chinese takeaway (very rarely; money was tight), he put a small amount on two saucers (having been washed after the dogs’ coffee, I must presume) and brought it up to us in bed, two little birds with open mouths anticipating a rare luxury.

   

Until my late teens, our social life centred on family activities. We were all ballroom dancing competitors and used to travel with Mum and Dad to their evening competitions, where my collection of rubber animals was always a hit amongst the judges. It did no good when they came to awarding Mum and Dad points, though, not least because no lime green latex praying mantis in the world is going to compensate for the fact that your parents cannot dance in time to the music.

   

It was one of the rare skills Dad could not master. In other things, he had a lot of knowledge about a lot of things, and his practical skill at all things electrical and mechanical (he was a mechanical engineer) is something I have inherited from him, albeit on a small scale (I read instruction manuals from beginning to end in order to master a product; my mother and brother have no patience in such preambles and are still screaming at the gadget's incompetency three years down the line).

I also inherited from Dad a strong work ethic that was instilled in me from primary school age. If you are not in work on time, he used to say, it is not your employer’s problem. But what if the bus breaks down, I used to say. Still not your employer’s problem. The responsibility to do what one is asked, to the best of one’s ability and deliver it on time is something to which I have adhered to my entire working life, and it astonishes and frustrates me that others do not adopt the same philosophy.

   

His practical skills manifested themselves in all areas of our lives. It was to him my mother turned when the Betterware man, Tupperware man, Avon lady, or whoever else my mother had taken pity on, rang the door for payment for the useless goods she had ordered (there was a Cancer research man, too, but he died). Whatever they required – the Avon payment book, invoices, insurance certificates, cash – Mum could never find to give them. Along with car-keys, lipsticks, cheque-books and pens, these items were Dad’s responsibility in the midst of Mum’s mounting panic over their apparent loss.

   

When Dad died, the first car through the door was from the Avon Lady.

   

My first thought was one of surprise that Avon ladies still existed; the second, that Mum still bought from them. Within two hours of Dad’s death, Mum picked up the card from behind the door, opened it, smiled, frowned and started to cry. 

“It’s from the Avon Lady,” she said, passing me the first bereavement card of the day. I read the message: “You’ll never be able to find the book now.” 

Don’t bother calling again, Avon.

   

Both my Mum and Dad gave my brother and me a happy childhood. There was not a vast amount of money, but we lived a comfortable life in which we felt no deprivation - well, apart from my resenting the cooked meal we had every day after school, when my friends up the road were enjoying Ritz crackers and cheese. 

Our holidays were spent at Butlin’s, where we enjoyed late nights drinking hot milk and watching the doughnut-making machine sugar our supper. 

On summer weekends we went to the beach, where Dad really came into his own packing the car (and unpacking it at the other end) the essentials Mum deemed necessary for a day at the sea - wind-break, Lilo, Flotina, deck chairs, table and chairs, cold-box, hamper, sun umbrella, Tupperware for sandwiches and squash, flasks for tea and coffee, dog bowls, towels and swimming costumes, eight gallons of Calamine lotion. By the time we left the house, dusk was falling and our day out became 40 minutes. But, as with everything, Dad bore his lot with equanimity.

   

Dad’s calm nature was in stark contrast to that of Mum, Nigel and me, whose rather wacky humour put us in tune with each other in rather more obvious ways. Where Mum had me dressed in psychaedelic dresses and wearing cowbells to school when I was 11, Dad practically needed oxygen when I wore my first pair of platform shoes with a bright red plastic heart on the sides. His views on fashion were, as his values, old-fashioned by today’s standards, but I remain grateful for them.

   

He taught me manners and respect; the importance of hard work and being driven, but not to the point of negating the people closest to you. Despite his intellect and enormous success in his work, his family came first, ambition second. I doubt he ever thought of it as a sacrifice, but it is one that I believe he made in order that his children might have better lives. His goodness and love live on in the special relationship I continue to have with Mum and Nigel, and, every year, on Father’s Day in the UK, we call each other and remember just how lucky we were to have him - just as I will be doing this year in the US.

   

The day of his death is as clear today as it was in 1990, when I woke in London to the sound of my answer machine clicking in the living room. When I played back the messages, the last one said: “He passed away a few minutes ago . . . Jac? JAC? Oh, my God, it’s the answer-machine! What do I do? What do I do? It’s her answer machine!”

   

The nurse, having heard my voice, passed Mum the phone, without realising that it was a recording.

   

I took the train from Paddington to Bristol and, hours later, was looking at two bags on the kitchen unit under two separate pieces of paper. The first said SMALL ITEMS OF VALUABLE PROPERTY and listed: £1.25 – cash, 1 watch, glasses and case. The second, PROPERTY TO BE KEPT SECURELY IN GENERAL ADMINISTRATION OFFICE, listing toilet requisites, 1 track suit, 1 vest, 1 pants, 1 pair slippers, 5 hankies, 1 book, biscuits and container, cards, 1 towel, 1 dressing gown.

   

On paper, it didn’t look much to show for 60 years, but I continue to regard them as tributes to a man for whom avarice was anathema, and I stood crying next to a half-eaten tin of biscuits where, true to form, Dad had eaten only the plain and left the chocolate.

   

And now, as then, I give thanks both to, and for, my Dad. 

         

    

  

    

    

    

      

Matthew Rhys - My American (So Back Off!)

Reader, I married him. 

Okay, so that was the end of Jane Eyre, and this was May 2013, and the man I was marrying knew nothing about it, but you can’t have everything.

   

But my New Best Friend on board, Jen, officiated. The rings were made of champagne foil. And I moved cabins on Virgin Atlantic to force it onto the finger of Matthew Rhys.

   

To bring you up to speed with MY HUSBAND (stand back, ladies, or I will shoot). Several years ago, I pondered, in this blog, whether the man actually existed, so difficult had my attempts been even to catch a glimpse of him. Then, suddenly, he appeared in the King’s Head in Santa Monica for a rugby match on the TV; two days later, I met him again at a St David’s Day event he organised in LA.

   

This week, he appeared yet again in my life. I was not Stalking by Air, I promise; it really was an accident. I was at the bar on a Virgin Atlantic flight back to LA and telling my NBF about why some UK actors made it big in Hollywood and others didn’t. Talent, charisma, good looks, an ability to get on with others, that extra something that you can’t just put your finger on – the IT Factor. Like Matthew Rhys,” I said.

  

“Oh, he’s on board,” she said. “Just back there.” Well, I tell you, I was up that aisle quicker than you could say Fasten Your Seatbelts.

   

The man who is to be the new Darcy in the sequel to the Jane Austen classic, Pride and Prejudice, was, indeed, there. They practically had to call the paramedics to me. Handsome, dark tousled hair, beautiful eyes, perfect mouth . . . Honestly, if the plane plummets now, I thought, I will die a happy woman. My only worry was that he would usurp me in the South Wales Echo headline – “Hollywood actor goes down” – that sort of thing (in my dreams! . . . By the way, is anyone swallowing (as it were) that Michael Douglas excuse for his throat cancer?).  

   

This week, Rhys came to our screens in The Americans, and he is nothing short of brilliant (as is the show). After five seasons of Brothers and Sisters, playing gay Kevin Walker, Rhys is being heavily tipped to win major awards for his portrayal of a KGB spy living a “normal”, suburban life in the US.

   

It has to be said that Russian spies have never looked so sexy. 

No overcoats, no two octaves below par accents, and at least 30 years younger than his predecessors, Rhys (unlike Austin Powers) is The Spy You Want to S**g.

Sorry. Someone had to say it. 

And he’s my husband. 

So join the queue, bitch!

Another Average Day in Hollywood

A dead body. A court case. And a cat’s funeral. 

Just another average day in Hollywood.

    

The body at the top of the staircase outside my new apartment in West Hollywood appears to be dead. Very dead. White face, no movement and no response when I poke it. Then, I do what they do on TV: place my two fingers against her neck (I have ascertained that the corpse is female) and turn to the assembled throng (well, non-assembled in this case) and shake my head.

    

Going downstairs to get better phone reception, I call 911 and explain the situation. Returning to the corpse to await whatever service is on its way, I am more than a little surprised to witness a resurrection before me. Moreover, a resurrection with a very bad nosebleed dripping all over my carpet. “You wanna chill,” says the ungrateful Lazurus.

    

I call 911 again and tell them of the miracle that has occurred, but stress that the body is still in need of urgent medical attention. The last I see of her, she is in the middle of the road, trying to flag down a taxi. For all I know, she was run down and is now in the morgue, which is where she should have been in the first place. Some people have no sense of drama.

    

A few hours later, I find myself in court – a place I have been just twice in my life. The first time was as a witness for the police in the UK, when they had decided my complaint against a taxi driver warranted a case for "rude and aggressive behaviour".

    

The Appeals Court (he didn't turn up for the first trial - ok, a tad melodramatic, I admit) put the problem down to there not being "enough charisma" between us. How much charisma do you need to go from Wardour Street to Brewer Street (less than a mile) behind a pane of glass, I asked the dumbfounded police afterwards.

    

The second time was in LA in 2011, when I successfully sued my landlady for non-return of a huge chunk of my deposit. Everything I put into practice I learned from watching just one TV show: Judge Alex. And so, for the second time in a day dealing with LA law, I find myself in court for the third time: not in the handcuffs (alas) I fantasised about when I first saw the TV show, and not, thankfully, with my being sued for being the judge’s stalker.

   

Judge Alex used to tape in Houston but is now in LA, and it is not only the best of the courtroom shows, it is one of the funniest shows on TV. It helps that the judge is stunningly handsome, brilliant and witty, and Twitter is packed with legions of swooning female fans; but it is a brilliantly edited show, too.

    

So, I am on the set and asked where I would like to sit - on or off camera. Anyone who knows me would know they could have just plonked me on the Judge's bench at the outset and downgraded me from there.

   

In  fact, anyone who knows me will be surprised to learn that I was not fully robed, gavel in hand, shouting "Action!" with the poor Judge locked in a cupboard elsewhere on the studio lot.

    

So, I am seated second from the left in the front row, and the first person to talk to me is an actor. So is the second. And the third. And the . . . You get my drift. They join lists that provide audiences for studio shows such as Judge Alex and get paid by the day.

    

"They get paid more than we do," says RAN 1 (Resentful Actor Number 1 on my left, who has been to every show today), nodding towards the hallowed ground beyond the wooden barrier where he is penned. "When I was a litigator . . . " he begins. I decide not to point out that he has never been, will never be, a litigator. I also hesitate to point out that he will never be an actor, either, but hold my tongue. (When I returned to see my second show, he was shunted off to "Standing room”. Quite right, too).

    

Behind me sits RAN 2. She's a nurse. Not a real one, of course. She has been a "background actor" in several hospital dramas, but is ready to move centre stage.

    

"Do a monologue - NOW!" shouts RAN 1, a little frighteningly. She stumbles. I think of reciting Henry V's speech from the Battle of Agincourt, but in the millisecond I take for breath, RAN 1 is already off again. "I'm a Shakespearean actor really . . . “

    

There is a very handsome younger man behind him who has played a detective (albeit a "background detective"). He has the kind of look that gives me the feeling that he might just make it, and he comes to these shows to network. He claims they have been very useful.

   

 Oh, Hollywood, I love you. The hope.

    

The cat’s funeral is an altogether more sombre affair. I don’t like cats, but felt I had to support Chrissy, a fellow journalist, in her hour of need. “Mr Love” had been one of her feline companions for 14 years (“Slut”, his mother, lives on, and is very unperturbed by her son’s passing), and had been kept alive by his owner’s adoration and acupuncture, which is big pet business here. The decision to have him put down was a tough one.

    

My biggest concern is when I get a call from Chrissy saying that Bradley, the homeowner hosting the event, can’t find his iPod with Memory from Cats on it, the number Chrissy has chosen for the funeral, so could I gen up on the lyrics ready to sing.

    

When I arrive at Bradley’s, Mr Love is in a box wrapped in Christmas paper, with three sunflowers on the top. Memory is playing on the iPod, which has been found. Phew.

    

Basil, Bradley’s dog, is hovering a little too enthusiastically close to the box, and when we enter the garden for the ceremony, he is locked away.

    

After Chrissy reads an e-mail from a friend, praising both Mr Love and his owner, I decide to sing. I wasn’t going to waste a morning’s practice, after all, so I go for the Welsh hymn Calon Lan, which means a pure/honest/happy heart. I tell the sobbing throng that it’s a love song. I decide to leave out its associations with being sung on the rugby terraces. 

It’s what Mr Love would have wanted.

    

Like I said. Just another average day in Hollywood.

  

Professional Brits Abroad - Doncha Just Love 'Em!

Professional Brits abroad. 

Doncha just love ‘em. 

They save all year to have an experience of a lifetime, only to moan about it once they get there and then spend the whole time whingeing about how much happier they would have been, had they stayed at home.

    

So, yesterday, I was sitting in Il Pastaio, one of my favourite restaurants in Beverly Hills. It is always packed, but especially so on a Friday. The weather has been sensational this week, and yesterday was the hottest day of the year so far. Everyone was smiling. Laughter was contagious on the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Inside, where I sit at the bar, I touched base with waiters I hadn’t seen in over a year and was welcomed like a long lost member of the family.

   

Then, THEY arrived. Two overweight, red-faced, sweaty Brits from the north of England, sighing heavily like two stab victims stumbling in from the street.

   

“Bad day?” I asked.

    

And they were off. “We hate this weather . . . just been on one of those open top tour buses . . . not really us . . . so hot . . . we hate this weather . . . wish we’d never come here . . . not really our thing . . . can’t wait to leave . . . not our thing at all . . . “

    

On and on and on. “So what is your thing?” I asked.

   

 “The Grand Canyon.”

    

Then why don’t you just piss off to the Grand Canyon, I thought, but politely declined to say. Instead, I said: “Well, at least you’re now in one of the most famous, nicest restaurants in Beverly Hills.”

    

“Really?” said the female lobster. “You wouldn’t think so. It’s very crowded. And there are more waiters than people.”

    

Now, that’s not strictly true, is it, love? There are a lot of waiters because there are a lot of people. If there were more waiters than people, that wouldn’t make economic sense. It would be silly. And if you two shifted your fat backsides off to the Grand Canyon, there were would be room for at least another dozen customers, thereby solving the problem.

    

Having gleaned that the male lobster liked wine, I suggested that as they were staying in the Best Western in Santa Monica, they visit Wine Expo, about five minutes walk from their hotel. It is one of my favourite places in LA and, with daily tastings and a huge store, has the best Italian wine selection outside Italy. The lobsters showed about as much interest as the Pope in a brothel. As they were in LA for another three days, I went on to suggest other places that they might visit off the tourist trail. “It’s just not really our thing” was the response to every idea.

    

Brits in America make the worst tourists (second only to Americans in France, who are the rudest, most ignorant on the planet). Despite the great service, choice of restaurants, and, at the moment, prices that are way below those in Europe, they still find something to moan about. Back at home, they have doubtless been moaning since Christmas about the British weather, their mounting debts, the escalating fuel prices, and there being nothing on the telly. So, they plan a trip to escape it all, only to spend the whole time dreaming about the hellhole they have left in the north of England.

    

I love America, but I especially love LA. True, it’s odd in many ways – you never really know who anyone is. Unlike New York or London, where people tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves, in LA you’re never quite sure what you’re getting. People wear many faces, and you can never be sure which is the real one.

    

But I have found it to be incredibly friendly. I love the work ethic and the fact that it is the centre of the universe for film and television. I love everyone’s belief that anything is possible. Who cares if most of their dreams come to nothing; better to have a dream and live in hope than to look permanently to a black horizon.

    

I don’t care if it’s not your thing. It’s mine. So take your lobster flesh off to the Grand Canyon and then back home, where you can tell everyone about the two-mile radius you believe is LA.

    

Me, I’m off for a stroll on the beach, followed by a frozen Margarita and half an hour watching the sun set over the Pacific. 

Safe trip home, lobsters.

Tattoos, Simon Cowell and Having My Day in Court with Judge Alex

The first time I was in a courtroom was as a witness for the police in the UK, when they had decided my complaint against a taxi driver warranted a case for "rude and aggressive behaviour".

The Appeals Court (he didn't turn up for the first trial - ok, a tad melodramatic, I admit) put the problem down to there not being "enough charisma" between us. How much charisma do you need to go from Wardour Street to Brewer Street (less than a mile) behind a pane of glass, I asked the dumbfounded police afterwards.

The second time was in LA in 2011, when I successfully sued my landlady for non-return of a huge chunk of my deposit. Everything I put into practice I learned from watching just one TV show: Judge Alex (follow @judgealexferrer on Twitter). And so, today, I found myself in court for the third time: not in the handcuffs (alas) I fantasised about when I first saw the TV show, and not, thankfully, with my being sued for being his stalker.

I was there as a member of the audience, and not since I saw Simon Cowell's enormous Winnebago (no, that is not a euphemism) on the set of American Idol a few years back, have I been so excited.

In fact, so excited have I been about knowing both men, I nearly got their names tattooed - one on each shoulder - when I was in Venice Beach a few weeks back.

Alcohol had been consumed. Sobriety had been resumed when I settled for an engraved ingot with WWSD (What Would Simon Do) on it (sorry, Judge, even semi-stalkers have their pecking order).

So, here I am on the set and I am asked where I would like to sit - on or off camera. Anyone who knows me would know they could have just plonked me on the Judge's bench at the outset and downgraded me from there.

In fact, anyone who knows me will be surprised to learn that I was not fully robed, gavel in hand, shouting "Action!" with the poor Judge locked in a cupboard elsewhere on the studio lot.

So, I am seated second from the left in the front row, and the first person to talk to me is an actor. So is the second. And the third. And the . . . You get my drift. They join lists that provide audiences for studio shows such as Judge Alex and get paid by the day. I suggest a sum and am told that yes, I am fairly accurate for days like this. When I arrive, the team is already on show five, and there are three more to go. They record 130 shows in a little over three months and the five blocks of three day taping are clearly the most intense.

"They get paid more than we do," says RAN 1 (the Resentful Actor Number 1 on my left, who has been to every show today), nodding towards the hallowed ground beyond the wooden barrier where he is penned. "When I was a litigator . . . " he begins. I decide not to point out that he has never been, will never be, a litigator. I also hesitate to point out that he will never be an actor, either, but hold my tongue. (When I returned to see my second show, he was shunted off to "Standing room". Quite right).

Behind me sits RAN 2. She's a nurse. Not a real one, of course. She has been a "background actor" in several hospital dramas, but is ready to move centre stage.

"Do a monologue - NOW!" shouts RAN 1, a little frighteningly. She stumbles. I think of reciting Henry V's speech from the Battle of Agincourt, but in the millisecond I take for breath, RAN 1 is already off. "I'm a Shakespearean actor really . . . "

There is a very handsome younger man behind him who has played a detective (albeit a "background detective"). He has the kind of look that gives me the feeling that he might just make it, and he comes to these shows to network. He claims they have been very useful.

Oh, Hollywood, I love you. The hope.

The tension is building and the courtroom bailiff Mason is on the set. Very cute. Great smile. Great presence. And his gun is in my eye line. I don't known what it is about men in uniforms and outfits, but take Judge Alex Ferrer . . . Ex-pilot, cop, judge - oh, your honour, please avoid the medical profession; a white coat might prove the final, fatal straw. Even as I write that sentence, I am fantasising about your stethoscope.

The studio, on Bronson in Hollywood, is all very relaxed ("Remember my name!" whispers RAN 1) until the announcement of "The Honorable (US spelling!) Judge Alex Ferrer", which, unlike when you watch on TV, has a slight air of "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your host. . ." about it.

Then he's there. And everything changes. It's like the Second Coming, albeit one a lot more clean-shaven than the first. The cliches of tall, dark and handsome are even more apparent under the studio lights, and from my seat I get a great view.

At least, I did, until the second case, when a very wide defendant blocked my view of Judge Alex completely. Talk about a total eclipse of the Son (geddit? Oh, go back few sentences). I so wanted her to lose. She did.

The third case even had a star guest in singer Freda Payne (most famous for the 1970 hit Band of Gold), which was very exciting. I thought the Judge got a little too overwhelmed at her presence, but by then I was backstage with the producers and out of striking distance of my love rival.

The producers were loving it. I've seen a lot of shows and know a lot of crews and I have never seen one as united and enjoying their work as this one. They laughed, they shared comments, they even clapped when the audience clapped. And they cared. They absolutely cared.

"I really hope she wins," said one, turning to his co-workers. And I could tell he wanted her to. It's drama, after all, and we care about the ending (she did, by the way, and the cheering backstage was heartfelt).

The cases come from all over the US, and Judge Alex (unlike other TV courtroom judges) conducts considerable research into each state's individual laws. With stringers in around 25 states trawling court records, the team also has to weed out people just looking for a free trip to Hollywood. At the studio, the rest room door jammed my finger twice. I told Supervising Producer James that I might sue. He jokingly suggested I could be a case on the final run of taping; even be "the last show".

Oh, James, you really don't know me, do you? I am already shopping for my outfit.

It is not just the research or the good looks (did I mention those?) that make this show easily the best of the US courtroom reality shows - and one of the best shows on TV. The Judge's intelligence, charisma and brilliant lateral thinking are second to none. It comes across on TV, but even more so in the studio where, of the 40 or so minutes taped, by the time you add promos, ads, et al, roughly just 14 will make it to screen. And, having seen the live show, I cannot heap enough praise on the seamless, incredible job they do in the editing suite.

Judge Alex doesn't so much listen to the evidence, it's as if he's breathing it in, and you can see from the initial slight smile, the information being gathered, formulated, and finally delivered in one-liners that are as funny as those from any comedian. I swear I have never laughed aloud so much at anyone on TV. Ever.

And this from a woman who has been watching and reviewing the genre for about 90 hours a week for three decades.

Judge Alex's years as a cop, lawyer and judge seem to be embedded in his DNA and, having had some of the worst criminals before him (the forthcoming movie Pain and Gain is based on one of his most famous cases - the Judge was asked to appear in it but would not renege on a school engagement to which he was already committed), he has seen the lot.

Now, he's clearly having fun, but his ability to combine the minutiae of law with such immense humour is truly breathtaking - as is his incredible energy in being able to perform so eloquently and brilliantly for so many hours under those lights.

And then there are those hands: long, elegant fingers that seem to massage the arguments as the Judge declares “Here’s where we’re at”, before delivering his verdict. Alex Scissorhands.

You'll be hearing more about the show and the Judge when I post the interview I conducted recently with him in Miami, but just in case you're hoping for that Jane Eyre happy ending, I'll put you out of your misery now.

Reader, I didn't marry him.