I've still not heard anything from Steven Spielberg; nor Quentin Tarantino. I'm a little disappointed by this unexpected delay, but neither my hope nor ambition has waned. There is probably an "inside" reason that is temporarily preventing these two Cinematic Colossi from contacting me. Maybe Harrison Ford and John Travolta are so alarmed at the prospect of being up-staged, and then ignominiously dismissed, that they have kidnapped these two Movie Moguls, and, even as I ineptly down-load this paragraph with my one and only typing finger, are sliding pizzas to them under substantially locked cellar doors. There is no other obvious reason that adequately explains their silence.

  Steve, as I'm sure he'll straight away let me call him, must know, with his practiced, creative, eye that I could fear snakes, wear a battered trilby, sport an old service revolver, carry a soft brush and trowel, learn matters archealogical, become a dab hand at whip-cracking, and practice a few veterinary activities, for his next sequel - "Rustlers of The Lost Noah's Ark".

  And, my soon-to-be very best mate, Quentin must surely be aware what an asset my unique body would be in his all-action follow-up - "Killing Billy, Willy, Nilly, part 23". I certainly would not mind being handsomely remunerated for sitting, on set, in my personalised canvas chair, watching Uma Thurman systematically dismember my body double with her highly polished finger nails, and gleaming samurai sword. Come to think of it, perhaps that's one of Quentin's problems, finding a suitable body-double. Maybe he doesn't have enough plastic padding.

  Another feasible explanation for the Phenomenal Film-Makers' flummoxing failure to 'phone me as yet, is the highly unlikely possibility that the news of my most recent thespian activity has not yet 'gone global', nor even crossed 'The Pond', and has hence not yet come to their breath-bated attention.

  The highly acclaimed role upon which I'm basing these lofty, but justifiable, aspirations is my appearance in an episode of "Hollyoaks". Admittedly it was several years ago, and some people were unkind enough to say I only had a support-ing role therein. Not true. I had a support-ed role, I was leaning against a wall in the background.

  But, as a result of this experience, when the two Directorially Devilish Divas do contact me, and start haggling, in millions, for the enviable sole-rights to my potentially glorious career in the world of celluloid make-believe, at least I shall be conversant with film-making techniques.

  For example, I now know why the whole process is so expensive. I know it certainly has nothing to do with paying "Extras", as I received precisely zilch for my 'atmosphere creating performance'. Even the glasses of beer I was seen consuming, (yes beer, not cold tea as so many 'not-in-the-know' seem to think), I paid for myself! The main costs seem to derive from getting just about everything as expensively wrong as possible.

  About the only thing the production team got right was the location. The storyline was set in San Antonio, and was filmed in San Antonio! Not like Wild West films that were shot in Spain; Scotland's greatest hero 'Braveheart' William Wallace's adventures being reproduced in The Isle of Man; Liverpool being used in some films, as it's more like some American cities, than some American cities.

  The scene was mid-morning, the actors, in character, were breakfasting. So the powers-that-be chose to film it in the early evening when the incredible natural light, of which Ibiza has a famous abundance, was fading. This justified the use of countless, no doubt highly paid, technicians with cables and lights and reflector screens and heaven knows what else. They shot the scene quite a few times, and obviously the lighting was more of a problem each time thus justifying even more generators and ancilliary staff.

  They wanted the 'characters' to be eating an English Breakfast at an English Bar. So the bosses chose about the only English Bar in San Antonio that does no food at all, never mind breakfast. Therefore the meals had to be prepared elsewhere, carried around the block, and then 'appear' from the chosen premises. For each take the meals were "refreshed". By the time the long suffering actors had eaten countless forkfuls of stone-cold beans and grease, each successive one becoming more coagulated and nauseous, they were ready to throw up. Perhaps they did, as it was, by then, too dark to see properly.

  I was reminded of all this the other day on seeing the video of the relevant episode again. I now realise that there is another possible reason for the Movie Maestri's lack of communication. "Hollyoaks" may indeed have crossed 'The Pond', and they might even have seen it, but had they blinked at the wrong moment, then my transatlantic board-treading activities are scuppered before they begin.

Still I live in hope.

Must finish now, I can hear the 'phone ringing……. you never know!