Jorja on my mind

Sexy, rich and successful movie star Minnie Driver has been complaining lately of her inability to find a man who is prepared to ask her out. “It’s unbelievable, I just can’t get a date,” she was heard to wail forlornly. Now seeing as the only small thing I can think of that might prevent any sane heterosexual man asking an openly gagging-for-it Minnie Driver out on a date is the fact that her countenance resembles a post oral-sex woman having trouble deciding whether to spit or swallow, I find it incredibly difficult to empathise with her on this one.

Whatever a man might think about marrying her, setting up home, fathering her children or meeting her folks, I can’t think of one single bloke I know who wouldn’t be happy as a pig in shit to be seen out on the town with a beautiful, affluent and famous Hollywood movie star on his arm. Like she says herself, it’s unbelievable, which leads me to surmise that what Minnie says she can’t get a date, what she actually means is that she can’t get a date with a man befitting a woman of her station in life.

And let’s face it, we’ve all met ladies like that. They’re gorgeous, they’re rich, they’re sexy and they claim that the reason they never get asked out is because men are intimidated by them. What they don’t say is that the reason men are intimidated by them is because any mere mortal that approaches them in public and suggests a date is invariably greeted with a look of what can only be described as withering contempt. Then raucous laughter.

A man like me would need balls of titanium and several drinks on board to even consider propositioning a woman like Minnie Driver, not least because she’s a complete ride who numbers moneyed Hollywood studs such as Harrison Ford, John Cusack and, eh, Matt Damon among her former squeezes. Nevertheless, in the unlikely event that I ever meet Minnie, I’ll definitely ask her out if only to see what happens next. My guess is that she’ll decline my kind offer, before calling the police to tell them that a strange Irishman has broken into her house and is helping himself to the contents of her laundry basket.

Having said that, I must admit that I do have previous in the field of asking out glamourous actresses. No, really. I once had the pleasure of interviewing the gorgeous, husky-voiced Jorja Fox, a former ER star who plays forensic scientist Sara Sidel in the excellent CSI.

Although the interview in question never saw the light of day due to a minor technical glitch (I very cleverly recorded over the tape soon afterwards), we got on famously. This was due in no small part to the fact that she was rather bored after being asked daft questions for three hours by a dizzying array of German, Dutch and Spanish journalists, and I was rather drunk after being kept waiting in a room for three hours with a dizzying array of German, Dutch and Spanish lagers.

“Everyone’s asking what my favourite colour is. You’re not going to ask what my favourite colour is, are you?” she implored beseechingly when I was finally introduced to her.

“No, I’m going to ask why you only work on TV shows whose titles are initials,” I replied. “So tell me, why do you only work on TV shows whose titles are initials?”

Her peals of laughter meant we were off to a good start and before long – purely because I thought they were the kind of things readers would be interested in – I’d established that she was rich, single, funny, down to earth, 30, and on the lookout for a bloke if the right one should happen to come along. In even less time, I established that I was in love.

“So, are you staying in London long?” I enquired, making small talk/fishing for information once the tape had stopped rolling.

“No, I go back in two days,” she replied. “It’s a real shame because I’d like to see some of the city before I go back.”

“Well, you know I could show you around tonight or tomorrow if you’re free,” I said, suddenly agog at my previously concealed ability to ask out sexy thespians.

To her eternal credit, she didn’t wince, bat an eyelid or, heaven forbid, grimace. No, that’s what her publicity woman was there for: “I’m sorry, but Jorja’s schedule is completely booked up doing publicity for the next two days and there’s absolutely no way she’ll have time to do anything like that,” she snapped.

“Ah well, not to worry. You can’t blame a man for trying,” I mused, before handing over my number and telling her to ring me if she had any spare time. Well bedad if she didn’t take the number, pocket it and look at me as a grin the slice of a melon-slice broke across her radiant features: “Do you always hit on your interviewees like this?” she enquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Only the good looking ones,” I admitted. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

And with that, I ambled out the door. That was over a year ago and I’ve heard nothing since, but I’m still cautiously optimistic temptation will get the better of her some day soon, she’ll pick up the phone and take me away from all this.