Russell, what a big boy you are

Decca Aitkenhead12 April 2012

Russell Crowe may have won Best Actor at the Baftas but, much more importantly, he turned in his best acting performance ever at the party afterwards.

Upset with the BBC for editing his acceptance speech, the star summoned the show's director, pinned him against the wall and called him various things that would make Ali G blush. After some vigorous chair-kicking, he flounced off with the immortal words: "I'll make sure you never work in Hollywood again."

Oh, Russell! My, how hard you are. You've really got us scared now, Russ.

We get the picture. You are definitely, as you would doubtless put it yourself, one mean mother****** ...

And so Russell Crowe joins a long line of stars, from Marlon Brando to Sean Penn, who have dedicated their free time to convincing the public that they are, in fact, big, tough guys, and not actorly wusses. But, despite all his energetic efforts, the fact remains that Crowe makes a living by pretending to be somebody else, and how macho is that?

He is grumpy, certainly, but then you would be if you were that fat. True, he doesn't live in Hollywood, but this fact does not in itself denote masculinity. Lots of men do not live in Hollywood.

He kicked over three chairs on Sunday, which is obviously immensely brave. But what was the cause of his outburst? The manly hunk had, er, read out a poem. And the nasty BBC had cut it.

A strong sniff of hypocrisy

Last week, for example, the BBC led a public lament for the state of the health service, and patients asked why it took 12 months to see a specialist. The answer really isn't complicated. Doctors cost money, and we haven't elected a party willing to raise income tax for more than 20 years.

What did we expect? The attitude to food is a similar puzzle. It is highly fashionable to moan about the quality of produce in London, and people complain that tomato salad in Fulham doesn't taste the way it does in Tuscany - which indeed it does not.

But then they'll abandon their greengrocer and defect to Tesco, over the difference in the price of a pound of potatoes.

But these blind spots are still as nothing compared to the curious mental block Londoners have concerning drugs and crime. Right now you cannot move at parties for clever, fast young things talking about the new wave of violence.

Crime is not exactly a new trend in London, but the sort of crime that makes City boys think twice about buying a new BMW, for fear of having it stolen while they're still in it, is decidedly novel. Suddenly-smart, young professionals are scared that the sort of crimes once confined to Clapton's Murder Mile might be coming their way. And what do they say about it?

"Isn't it dreadful?" they say. "People being shot in broad daylight! In Battersea! All those guns, and the gangsters are out of control, and it's all down to the cocaine trade, and the drugs are bringing in gunmen from Jamaica, and - 'scuse a second, I just have to go to the toilet."

A few minutes later they're back again, wiping their noses, brighteyed and freshly energised, and rattling on - "Yeah, like I was saying, it's terrible, something's got to be done about the Yardies, I reckon we should have armed police, lock muggers up for longer, I dunno. Fancy a line?"

I think this is known as wanting to have your coke and eat it.

Sorry, but I'll never support England

The horrible truth, of course, is that England might actually win the World Cup this summer. Alas, Scotland won't, having failed to qualify - and in all honesty, we're unlikely ever to win. Some might therefore conclude that an inherited allegiance to Scotland was rather bad luck, and that half-bred fans should seize their chance and switch to England, now that an SNP politician has said it's OK to back Beckham. "They have a smashing team and 99 per cent of their fans are superb. England and the English should be our closest friends."

Well, there may be sound reasons for Scottish nationalists to change the habit of a lifetime and start cheering for Sven's boys, but I wouldn't wish such an affliction on anyone. In the lottery of birth, there is no bigger jackpot than an inheritance that puts you forever on the other side from Frank Skinner.

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