The Irish Mail on Sunday - TV Week - - RADIO WEEK -

Paris Hil­ton is tech­ni­cally the woman who makes me a bigamist. We wed for an ITV doc­u­men­tary I made about Las Vegas, and though it was a spoof, the US is now so liti­gious, I reckon I could have a pop at tak­ing half her money.

In­creas­ingly ap­peal­ing, given how much cash is pour­ing in. She came on my show tonight, and re­vealed she’s re­leas­ing her 17th fra­grance, is about to open her 45th store, and plans to en­ter the fam­ily busi­ness by open­ing her first ho­tel, in Manila.

‘You must be absolutely stink­ing rich by now?’ I said. ‘My prod­uct lines have made over $1.5 bil­lion,’ she purred. ‘How does that make you feel?’ ‘It’s very ex­cit­ing… to hear those num­bers.’ It cer­tainly is. Paris, 32, is cur­rently dat­ing a 21year-old male model called River. ‘He’s your toy­boy, right?’ ‘I call him my man.’ ‘Is he a man yet?’ ‘Yes, he’s very ma­ture.’ ‘ Is he aware that I’m your only hus­band to date?’ ‘He’s very aware of that…’ ‘How is he deal­ing with it?’ ‘Of course, he’s a lit­tle bit jeal­ous of you.’

I re­played the Vegas wed­ding video. ‘ We seem so right to­gether…’ I sug­gested. She nod­ded. ‘ The most ro­man­tic day of my life.’ Time to stake my claim. ‘Did I sign a pre-nup?’ ‘No.’ ‘ I quite fancy a bit of that $1.5 bil­lion pie.’

Paris stared at me, mo­men­tar­ily hor­ri­fied, but she re­cov­ered to pose for pic­tures, sit­ting on my knee. She then tweeted the snaps with the words: ‘Love Piers, he’s such a sweet­heart.’

A tweet that will now be Ex­hibit One in my alimony suit. bed, and I’ll start singing some­thing real kind of ro­man­tic, and she’ll take her hand and put it on my face to say: ‘No, don’t, be quiet.’

I know just the feel­ing. So­pra­nos star James Gan­dolfini has died of a heart at­tack at the trag­i­cally early age of 51. His smoul­der­ing, brood­ing, snarl ing por trayal of dys­func­tional mafia mob­ster Tony So­prano was truly one of the great TV per­for­mances. And Gan­dolfini was prone to tak­ing his work home with him, judg­ing by the one time I met him, out­side the Four Sea­sons ho­tel in Bev­erly Hills a few years ago.

He was wait­ing for his car at the valet park­ing area and it was slow com­ing. ‘Where is it?’ he growled. A ter­ri­fied young at­ten­dant apol­o­gised, but he was hav­ing none of it. ‘I. Just. Want. My. Car,’ he spat, slowly but with max­i­mum im­pact.

In­ex­pli­ca­bly for a city where valet park­ing is so fast it’s al­most an art form, the min­utes ticked by and still Mr Gan­dolfini’s ve­hi­cle showed no sign of ap­pear­ing.

I watched him, fas­ci­nated. He was a huge bear of a man, and sweat­ing pro­fusely in the mid­day LA heat. And I could see the rage be­gin­ning to al­most lit­er­ally over­whelm him. He was ac­tu­ally shak­ing, and shift­ing from one foot to the other.

I tried to calm things down by in­tro­duc­ing my­self and say­ing how sorry I was that The So­pra­nos had just fin­ished. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied, his eyes bor­ing into mine like Vito Cor­leone’s bore into Vir­gil Sol­lozzo’s in The God­fa­ther, when the lat­ter sug­gests all the mafia bosses team up and get into the heroin busi­ness.

‘Still,’ I per­sisted, ‘bet­ter to leave the pun­ters beg­ging for more.’ He peered Richard Schi f f, who played Toby Ziegler, the bril­liantly acer­bic White House com­mu­ni­ca­tions di­rec­tor in The West Wing, tweeted a photo tonight of him look­ing rather the worse for wear af­ter din­ner in LA with his for­mer col­league Al­li­son Jan­ney, who played the equally bril­liant press sec­re­tary, CJ Cregg. ‘ The Wasted Wing’, I in­stantly retweeted. You never lose it. Madonna said to­day, ‘Guns don’t kill peo­ple; peo­ple kill peo­ple,’ in a fee­ble at­tempt to de­fend her use of as­sault ri­fles on stage in her re­cent tour. Thus re­veal­ing her brain is as frozen as her face th­ese days.

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