The life of an assassin is not for I

Yes, I have had to abandon all thoughts of becoming a hired killer. It looked all very jolly in Mr. and Mrs. Smith and I considered a career change but I 've just seen The American and realise it wouldn't do.

I am positive I could very easily pull off the amount the of frowning required for the job though. Tom Cruise was extremely irritable in Collateral. George Clooney was awfully cross throughout  The American and spoke more or less continuously through gritted teeth, in a monotone. Small wonder, the poor man never got a wink; he was forever sitting bolt upright in bed with gun at the ready , at the merest gust of wind in the night. I would be hysterical by lunchtime on day two.

Only there wouldn't be any lunch. George only had one meal the whole time . This was of course with a kindly priest, due to the Italian setting, and accompanied by Madame Butterfly as background music. He went on a picnic, in fact, with his bird ( this is meant to indicate a yearning for a normal life in Holywood) and there wasn't a Scotch egg  or even a limp sandwich in sight. George failed to crack a smile even when the girlfriend stripped off and bathed in the lake. My companion and I were amazed that this actress had required a 'stunt double' - presumably she had agreed not to wear a bra in any scene but the nipples had consequently drooped for the nudey swimming part and someone else's were wheeled in.

This girlfriend had been acquired in the local brothel, naturally. This is what assassins have to resort to; otherwise, sexual partners must be bumped off immediately before the afterglow. Edward Fox started all this in The Day of The Jackal, though judging by his facial expression, it's entirely possible he was merely trying to rid the world of a terrible smell. George was living in a village with a population of 50 or so it seemed , but there was a thriving harem of doe-eyed slappers. At least George got his kit off too. But it matters not a bit how many fake tattoos he got for this role; he is and always will be as suave as Cary Grant and less poncy.

There were several unintentionally funny conversations with George's boss displaying the utter lack of need for greetings and niceties in Holywood. They would start their conversations with a some frowning and breathing and just jump straight in with something like ' How did they find me?'  The boss seemed to spend his entire life sitting in a sort of 60's kitchen waiting for the calls. He was never seen contorted, with the phone under his chin, finishing a spot of grouting.  Kitty and I started to heckle from our illegal position in the V.I.P seats 'Cheerio now!' 'Toodleoo!'-that sort of thing.

Poor George was desperately trying to retire from being a mercenary and this turns out to be disapproved of to the extent that a very sexy, equally sulky female is dispatched  forthwith to murder you. Now we know that we are expected to work these days until we are, what is it, 93? But at least you can expect to  leave full time employment without concrete boots on, to sleep with the fishes etc. etc. So I must continue with my present employment-the sex, even with George, would simply not be worth it.