The new Barry Norman, that is I

I figure I will be needed after 10 breathless weeks of Claudia Winkleman on Film 2010 came to a sudden end. Besides you will be attending the cinema so much more during your detox. I mean, instead of your detox. You say to yourself; 'Self, you are a hog and a beast and must cleanse your system' (or other such terms which should be uttered by a posh plumber). You read several encouraging articles about oats, you learn how to pronounce 'quinoa' and you purchase some sort of leesurewear in the sales, in black, so that you will look thinner and sexier in your imaginary gym visits which have increased in your head to 5 times a week, at least.
 Then you decide you may as well just 'get rid' of all the unhealthy items in the kitchen prior to starting a blameless regime. This results in a dinner of teeny sausages wrapped in bacon, chips roasted in goosefat, accompanied by several unidentifiable dips and chutneys and followed by peaches in brandy and all the chocolates you left because you didn't like them when you had a full choice. Oh yes, you were cavalier and cocky on Christmas morning when you had most of a Selection Box for breakfast then considered your first drink of the day. Now you are desperately unwrapping orange creams and marzipans to eat alongside your quadruple Baileys-all that cream in it; it must go!
The next day, still queasy, you abandon all thoughts of depriving yourself, as you decide you are hovering on the brink of a dangerous depression, purely because you have had to get up in the dark and go back to work, where they haven't even had the decency to finish off the tin of Quality Street. People keep holding up all the blues and reds, demanding suspiciously 'What's this one?' then eating it anyway. You join in, consoling yourself with lame plans for storage in the empty tin and realise that your detox will simply mean you will be going to the pictures instead of the pub.
You must see The Tourist with Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie. All the other actors are only in it because of them presumably-it can't have been the script-and you don't want to be left out. There is no other explanation and very little script anyway, just a lot of helpless staring at Angelina. The woman no longer looks human and minces about in cream pencil skirts and elbow length gloves, smirking, while purporting to be undercover. She meets Johnny who isn't wearing well, or may have had his face padded beneath an unflattering curly bob, all too reminiscent of one's own hairdo circa '95. They are chased by a few Brits who ought to have known better. Johnny overpowers one while handcuffed and Angelina rescues him in a speedboat and a very becoming hooded cloak. I always wear mine when I'm out and about on the Marina, spying and whatnot.
All this takes place in Venice and therein lies the explanation. Angelina and Brad must have fancied rocking about the Lido with the kids and having a few laughs of an evening with Johnny and Vanessa Paradis. I can see no other valid reason for choosing such a project. I can just picture them hoping the kids would get along. Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, I read, wants to be a boy. Best-looking little girl in the world and this is her dream, I kid you not. Hello magazine is always absolutely accurate and adored by the famous-they just repeat what the slebs say verbatim. This is why the questions are usually along the lines of 'Joan (Collins), what makes you so fabulous?'  Furthermore Hello had revealing photos of this wee person. I do hope a few playdates with Lily Rose Depp have discouraged Shiloh from running about in brogues and military jacket, insisting on being addressed as 'John'.