2001-10-12 - 2:02 p.m.

�Do you like my tight sweater?�

So the cinema-going public must once again endure my thankfully short-lived acting �talents� next week as our film is being shown as part of a small showcase. I suggested making it a three drink minimum, but the production company pooh-poohed me. It�s a special director�s cut, which I haven�t seen, but knowing him, it most probably means that he�s reworked it so it looks like a riotous slapstick farce relayed through the medium of interpretive dance. This, I hasten to add, is from the man who said �There�s no room for subtlety in filmmaking.� He also once, without fear of contradiction, publicly referred to the Jewish holy book as �The Tundra�. I remember one of the auditions, where he was attempting to impress a young actress by telling her, �The whole process is just one of bringing together professionals and feeding off each other�s creativity blah blah blah�, then as she left the room, he turned to me and whispered, �I know you think I�m just a serious film maker, Pablo, but sometimes I just look at a girl and want to fuck her titties, you know?� I didn�t know, but thanks for sharing. This disturbing mix of artistic pretension and confessions of a sex criminal did subsequently seem to provide a motif for all his casting decisions, now I come to think of it. Anyway, I imagine some concerted working of the free bar is going to be necessary to numb the embarrassment of next week. To paraphrase a comic whose name I forget, �My friends all laughed at me when I told them I wanted to make a comedy film�they�re not laughing now.�

Tonight, though, Tindersticks at the Royal Albert Hall, with full orchestra. Hoochie, as they say, mama.

�See how it fits my body�

As probably most of you aren�t aware, there�s been some controversy here with a senior cabinet worker, who, ONE HOUR after the second plane hit, sent an e-mail to advise governmental press officers that this �would be a good time to bury damaging news stories� � ie. They could release unfavourable results of inquiries, etc, safe in the knowledge that they would probably get three lines on page 17, or more likely be completely ignored. Call me Mr Cynical, but doesn�t that seem, oooh, just a tad insensitive? I mean, what�s she like at home? Her husband walks in from work, and she runs up to him. �Hi honey. Listen�the kids have been horrifically mutilated in a tragic accident involving a stray cruise missile�oh, and I dented the car on the way home and thirteen years ago I had a brief affair with a minor soap star. Fancy eating out tonight?�

The first casualty of war is the vernacular of sexist social amoeba. Some walking home counties clich� (white shirt with red pinstripes, tucked into jeans coupled with � fuck me sideways � tan brogues) at the bar in the pub last night, observing the high proportion of female clientele, commented to his friend with the ill-advised highlights that it was a �target-rich environment�. It almost makes you hope for an extremely localised biological assault, resulting in an Anthrax party in his pants.

�Do you like my tight sweater?�

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I'm assured that this is a real note passed to a pilot on a Qantas flight: