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.