MYWEEK

The Jewish Chronicle - - COMMENT -

SO, ALL any­one wants to talk about is the Em­mys and the as­sump­tion that I might have in­gested some kind of il­licit sub­stance. Oh, and also that my in­ter­view on the red car­pet may not have been the most co­her­ent of the night.

I would an­swer any ques­tions hap­pily, but my rec­ol­lec­tion is a lit­tle hazy. I seem to re­mem­ber an in­ter­viewer ask­ing what I had in my purse and her be­ing pretty in­ter­ested in the liq­uid THC in my vape stick.

I mean, what is so shock­ing about tak­ing a lit­tle pot to an awards cer­e­mony? This is show­biz af­ter all.

In fact, I would say that I was set­ting a good ex­am­ple. You don’t have to smoke pot any­more, you can vape it — don’t you just love tech­nol­ogy?

Plus, it’s also good for you. I’m sure I read that some­where, or maybe I didn’t. Who knows? Any­way, be­ing Jewish, I’m a light­weight and I don’t drink any al­co­hol, so while you are gulp­ing the kid­dush wine, I’m va­p­ing pot. It’s more or less the same. (Thank you for that Tal­mu­dic pilpul loop­hole to my sis­ter the rabbi. And no, that’s not a typo.)

Of course there is the short-term mem­ory loss is­sue, and the fact that the an­swers I gave to the in­ter­viewer didn’t ex­actly cor­re­spond to the ques­tions she was ask­ing. I also seem to re­mem­ber be­ing asked about my boobs, and re­ply­ing some­thing along the lines of “they are the low­est they have ever been and the high­est they are ever go­ing to be”. So, on to the ac­tual award I won. Er, I think I was the win­ner. Like, when I woke up this morn­ing there was some kind of tro­phy here — so I’m as­sum­ing that it’s mine. Also, I have a mem­ory of mak­ing a speech – I def­i­nitely wouldn’t have done that if I had lost.

Oh, yes, of course, it was for my com­edy show We Are Mir­a­cles. And I am a girl who likes to give credit where it’s Jew, which is why I ran on stage bare­foot and gave thanks to “my Jews” at my agents, CAA.

Oh yes, and be­fore you ask, there was noth­ing chem­i­cally-in­flu­enced about the line: “We’re all just made of mol­e­cules and we’re hurl­ing through space right now.” That is fac­tu­ally cor­rect and the kind of thing Lau­rence Olivier would def­i­nitely have said — had he thought of it.

Any­way, it was a great night, there was a party I be­lieve, though the only thing I can def­i­nitely tell you is that I ate sev­eral peanut­but­ter-and-jelly sand­wiches af­ter I got home and I re­mem­bered to thank the fridge and the deli for mak­ing the sand­wiches a re­al­ity.

There is one as­pect of my life that the pot def­i­nitely helps with and that is un­der­stand­ing my boyfriend. Michael Sheen comes from a place called Wales and for all I know he might as well be talk­ing in Welsh. It’s all “All right there boyo, prop for­wards un­der the posts, llan­dudno gog­a­gogh”. Then he starts do­ing Brian Clough im­pres­sions and call­ing me “Young Man”.

But af­ter a few puffs it all seems to make sense . . . at least tem­po­rar­ily.

Ok, he’s just come into the house. Now where did I put my vape stick? I’m sure it was here some­where.

We are all made of mol­e­cules: aren’t we?

*As imag­ined by Si­mon Round

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