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It
is entirely unknown who posted this parody anonymously on the Beautiful
Minds message board. Whoever it was should receive a medal for creativity,
imagination, and balls. No doubt whoever it was has NO, absolutely
NO AFFILIATION WHATSOEVER with Russell Crowe, or with anyone in his
organization. It was a FAN, a fan familiar enough with the other fansites
to sign it "Lone Wolf / Kookie Insider" (Kookie = "Kookaburra").
So, please, no lame anal-retentive feverish speculation about whether
Russell Crowe ever thought or ever said anything here.
Thank you.
Management
Russell's
Golden Globe Diary
Russell Crowe does not
post on this board, respond to his critics, or talk about his relationships,
but if he did, this is what he might say
From a very secret memo
passing between the offices of Steven Spielberg and Jeffrey Katzenberg;
intercepted by an enterprising copy room clerk, smuggled out in the
tampon of a junior administrative assistant.
Russell's
Golden Globe Diary
G'day mates, how the
f--- are ya? I've been reading the tabs, and I know you have, and
I can just hear you thinking, "That wanker Russell is really up himself,
being all churlish and surly at the Golden Globes." Y'know, I try
not to focus on other people's opinions of me, good or bad, to get
through what I have to do. I mean, they're not going to change the
way I put on my pants, y'know? And I hate whinging, so I've kept quiet
about certain, um, incidents that, y'know, really changed my life
this year. So I have to get used to being got at, pursued, and knowing
there's nothing I can do about it.
But all those stories
are written by people looking at me from far away. Fucking hell! Some
of those journos are thousands of miles away when the things they
report on happen, or don't happen, as the case may be. That old diesel
Liz Smith (sorry Jodie) hasn't left New York since grandma was a girl,
but she acts like she's camped out in my bedroom. If I ever have some
journo shiela in my bedroom, I guarantee you it won't be Liz Smith,
although I will guarantee you that whoever it is, she'll get more
than a mouthful.
Here I am rabbiting on
and you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about. Not much, really,
I just thought for a change I'd tell my story myself.
I made my great escape
from Los Angeles in the middle of December, not a moment too soon
mate, thought I was going to find bunnies boiling on the stove, y'know?
I felt stuffed. All I wanted to do was go home, sleep in my own bed,
see my mum and my mates, y'know? Be someplace where I could take a
leak off the roof without some f---ing parasite recording the event
for posterity.
And I got that, sort
of, when I got home, except for the multitudes camped out at the gates
of my property waiting to see if a certain person who shall remain
nameless was going to arrive for a wedding that was supposed to take
place on New Years Eve. Unfortunately none of those wankers were bitten
by a snake, although come to think of it, the snake might have gotten
the worst of it! Jesus f---ing Christ there were even helicopters
doing fly overs! You'd think I was building missile sites instead
of a f---ing tent for a f---ing party. Quite a joke on them when New
Years came and went and I was still a single man.
After the hols, things
quieted down nicely, but then I had to fly back to LA for the first
round of ass kissing, I mean, award giving. The Golden Globes are
like the first in the series, and they are important because, sometimes,
they predict who's going to get an Oscar. But basically it's the same
boring bullshit, except with a dinner and lots of skinny women from
TV. I didn't want to go but I had to support the team, fly the flag,
be true blue, y'know?
I waited until the last
minute to fly to LA. My plan was, get on the plane, drink, get off
the plane, go to the dinner, drink, get an award maybe, go to some
parties, drink, get up, go to a lunch, drink, maybe get another award,
get on the plane, drink, go home. Bob's your uncle, piece of piss.
But nothing's that simple, y'know?
First of all, there's
all the kerfluffle about the clothes. You'd think that the only reason
people make $100 million movies is to give a few skinny actresses
the opportunity to dress up three or four times a year. Truth is,
I don't care what I look like; gimme flannies, jeans and a nice pair
of tennies and I'm good to go, y'know? But
that just wouldn't do for this mob, I'd stand out like dog's balls.
Anyway, last year was
easy, I had a sheila on the line to dress me, well not literally dress
me, seeing that she bats for the other team, but Jodi picked out my
clothes, got me groomed, all that nonsense. No worries mate! This
year I was going stag. Just got out of one situation and wasn't looking
for another one, thank you, and Jodie wasn't looking for a repeat
performance. She's cross as a frog in a sock because I happened to
mention the other team thing to a reporter in Oz, the comment got
picked up by the international press, and now everybody in the f---ing
world knows I said she plays for the other team. Like that's a surprise.
Luckily, one of the perks
of my job is free clothes. Armani sent over some things, and I picked
a long black coat, to cover up some of mom's cooking, y'know? Black
shirt, and, as long as there wasn't a woman around to make sure I
was uncomfortable, no tie. I didn't bother to cut my hair or get rid
of the whole bush beard, since I was going home right after I did
my duty. The outfit looked good to me, had that outlaw edge. I could
imagine Johnny Cash wearing it while he sang "Folsom Prison Blues,"
a favorite song of mine. After I had a good scrub and a rub from the
hotel masseuse, magnificent woman who had just the right touch, it
took me about 10 minutes to get dressed, I was good to go.
Now, when I said I was
going to the Globes stag, I didn't mean I was going alone. I can't
go anywhere in America where I'm expected and sure to be noticed alone
anymore. All the loonies have come out since, uh, uh, my connection
with a certain person became known. Some of them call me a home wrecker,
some of them call her a slut, a skank, a whore, a miserable high-maintenance
anorexic jealous neurotic harpy cunt, uh, y'know, that's not fair,
y'know. She's a great actress, really she is, especially in bed.
Anyway, I've been getting
hate mail, which is frightening, and love mail, which is even more
frightening. Y'know, there are websites where women, at least I think
they're women, discuss my donger 24/7! Holy snapping assholes, that's
peculiar! But as long as we're on the subject let me set the record
straight: ladies, it's big, very big. (imitating Mike Myers) Discuss
amongst yourselves.
I'm rabbiting on here
and losing track, oh, yeah, so now I've got these bodyguards. Huge
guys, a brick shithouse each and every one, whose job it is to get
between me and those who love me and those who hate me and those who
used to love me and now hate me, the last being the most frightening.
They're also there to keep rabid journos from asking embarrassing
questions about the person I do not wish to discuss, which, of course,
is all the journos want to know about. Jesus f---ing Christ as if
everybody in the year 2001 didn't know what comes from rooting the
wrong person. Actually, the studio is afraid that I'll spit the dummy
at some stupid question and engage in fisticuffs with a gay gossip
columnist right there on the red carpet. I don't know where they get
they idea that I'm prone to get physical, but f---, y'know, once you
get labeled as a bad boy it's all over. At least these big guys can
put away a bit of the amber liquid, which makes them more pleasant
company than the usual mincing public relations lady.
We pile into a Suburban
with tinted windows. Make that bulletproof tinted windows! Crikey!
I've got better security than the president, but then, I make a whole
lot more money. Then there's a never-ending wait in traffic. How the
f--- can people stand to live in Los Angeles? Takes an hour to get
to the bloody bottle shop on a weekday afternoon, y'know? This expedition
was timed so that I wouldn't get to the Hotel until the show was about
to start, so those bloody parasites drooling over their microphones
couldn't keep me posing on the red carpet too long, right?
So we get there, and
I get out of the car, and for about 30 seconds it's so sweet because
the fans see me before the f---ing press does, and they start to cheer.
It was like being back in the Coliseum, y'know? Except everybody's
yelling Russell! Russell! instead of Maximus, really got me into the
moment. Then the f---ing flashes started to go off, blinding me, and
somebody grabs my elbow and starts steering me to the friendlies and
away from the nasties on the red carpet.
Wonder how the ladies
and gentlemen of the press would like their looks and demeanors evaluated?
A little turnabout is fair play, right? What a crew! All of these
look-alike plastic women with big hair, tarted up in dresses the colors
of a liquid laugh, shoving microphones in my face, asking the same
stupid questions. How do I feel about being here? Just bloody f---ing
wonderful, y'know?
That Mary Hart now, how
long has her face been steeped in formaldehyde? Big plastic smile
with those big plastic lips that are so popular among Hollywood folk.
I'm sure she's paid big bucks, but let's be honest folks, she doesn't
know Christmas from Bourke Street. Miss Hart and her colleagues spent
a good part of last fall telling lies about my life as if they were
gospel - yeah, she's another one who had me marching up the aisle,
or as good as, on New Year's Eve - yet to play the game I have to
smile and nod at her like she was the Pope come to give me special
dispensation. Bloody oath that makes me cranky!
I almost had a f---ing
heart attack when I looked down the red carpet and saw this skinny
woman with a head of stringy blonde hair. Thought it was she who must
be avoided, y'know? Ducked behind one of the bigger body guards as
we got a little closer, and got even a worse fright, it looked like
that person had aged 30 years, y'know? Truly, truly frightening, mate,
chills my blood just to think about it. Finally, we got close enough
so I could see that it wasn't her at all, it was that old ratbag Joan
Rivers. I made my escape, passing close by her daughter, who seemed
to appreciate the proximity. Melissa is a bit of a dog but she turned
out to be okay, defending me and my Armani from her mother's knocking.
I'd toss her one if I hadn't learned a hard lesson about those pity
f---s.
The male reporters are
dipsticks to a man. The gay ones all knock me because I'm straight,
and the straight ones . . . well, there are no straight ones.
Inside the hotel I made
the rounds saying g'day. Saw my mates Al and Curtis, saw that kid
Jaime Bell, the only person in Hollywood who seems genuinely glad
to see me. I was dry as a nun's nasty by then, and really happy to
sit down to dinner and knock back some free plonk. Then the show started.
I was bored shitless within 15 minutes. The dialogue was stupid, let's
face it, most actors should only be heard when they're saying other
people's words. The only women in the room who could make me crack
a fat were the waitresses. I spent half my time out on the balcony
where at least I could have a ciggie, although I looked down at one
point and saw about 50 people looking up at me, like I was a two-headed
giraffe or something, y'know? That sent me back inside right quick.
And the whole bloody
thing went on too long. When it came to my category, announced in
the last 15 minutes of the show, the award went to that figjam Tom
Hanks, who spent most of his movie talking to a f---ing volleyball,
while I was fighting f---ing tigers. Should have known I had a Buckley's
chance of winning this particular popularity prize after nailing a
married woman, y'know? All I wanted right then was the loo and some
stronger drink, so my paid mates and I took off for fairer climes.
I missed seeing Gladiator get the award for best dramatic picture,
or whatever it was called. Sorry I missed Liz Taylor's performance
as a presenter, too, although from what people told me it might have
put me off the piss forever, and I don't know how I'd get through
awards season without it.
Afterwards, there were
the parties, and a couple of strange encounters with women. At one
party I was chatting up this tall girl with long pretty hair. I haven't
seen enough of that lately, y'know, pretty hair, I mean. Anyway, she
was dressed like the town bike and looked about 35, so I was petting
her hair and hoping I could move on to petting other things, y'know,
when she blew me off by telling me she was only 18. Loudly. That's
another strange f---ing phenomenon, women who are earning points god
knows where by giving me the flick. Half the female race is telling
me I'm too touchy and familiar, while the other half of the female
race is obsessed with my doodle and following me into the loo! Then
the young thing's mother gives an interview about defending her daughter's
honor from me! Y'know, I bet if there was a part for her in one of
my films mom would serve her up in the nuddy on a silver platter,
to me, the director, the cinematographer, the script girl and the
best boy.
Later that night I ran
into Miss Courtney Love, who has been trying to serve herself up to
me for at least a year. Courtney isn't someone I'd bring home to the
oldies, but I have to respect her. She writes songs, plays the guitar,
acts better than some I could name, and she can suck the chrome off
the bumper of a '63 Buick. She'd probably like the car, too. Yes,
I respect Courtney, you always know where you are with her, and that's
generally naked and on the floor!
Anyway, Courtney comes
back to my hotel with me, and we spend the rest of the night listening
to the Grunts, that's my band, Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts, new album
Bastard Life or Clarity. The album will be released in February, an
it's available on the internet through TOFOG's website, www.gruntland.com.
Of course, a couple of days later all these reports hit the tabs that
she spent the night with me, implying that we had become lovers. Well,
that's ridiculous, she didn't spend more than a couple of hours with
me, and just because someone milks you dry it doesn't mean you're
lovers, y'know? Just ask Bill Clinton, a truly great man who knows
what's what, if you ask me.
Well, it was morning
and I had to go to another do, so I called that nice masseuse again.
Magnificent woman, from Thailand, where they learn very special massage
techniques, y'know? Anyway, I was feeling really relaxed and happy
at the Broadcast Critics Award, and I had a much better time.
The
Lone Wolf Kookie Insider (BKA Unknown)
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