I can't believe Lainey said something nice!!!....kind of.
Spittle saved my ass
The AMFAR red carpet at Cannes is looooong. And jammed. It's an international festival. This is the most well attended party of the two weeks. So the press comes from everywhere in the world.
Since it's not a film premiere, celebrities at AMFAR are not required to stop at every outlet for interviews. They're technically not promoting anything and the ones who hate talking to the media just blow by the line, pose at the photo wall, and go inside to drink. Luckily I happened to be assigned beside some Italian presenter Pasquale who for some reason knows f-cking everyone. And they know him back him. Harvey Weinstein came over to Pasquale, Armani talked to Pasquale, everyone loves Pasquale. Back to this is a minute.
So Ebola Paris Hilton arrives. Of course it wants to be interviewed. It starts at the top of the line and stops at every outlet, giving each reporter 2 to 3 minutes each. I work for a tv show. The point of the tv show is to get celebrities on tv, talking. I knew my producer would make me talk to it. And I knew that telling Ebola that it was a piece of sh-t wouldn't exactly be in compliance with my job description. I'm not usually assigned to interview the likes of Ebola so we don't often run into these dilemmas. And I've been fortunate at the major events to have avoided it in the past. Until last night. It's not my style to be unprofessional. Especially at a charity event when I'm part of a crew that's responsible to send good work back home. At the same time, I did not want to be infected by that asshole's miserable virus. We have seen the effects of Ebola infestation. I was worried. And closer it came.
It was just one spot away from me when Spittle arrived. He was whisked through check-in and waved off all interviews, hurriedly headed for the entrance steps when beside me, a voice cried out:
God bless Pasquale. Of course Pasquale, for some reason, like he is with everyone else, is tight with Gerard Butler. And Butler turned, grinned at him, and came right over. Mother. F-cker.
At this point Dylan was forced to shoot Butler. Between Spittle and Ebola, obviously Spittle is the bigger name. As a decision for the show, anyone would make that call. And I had to try and benefit off Pasquale's bonus by inching my mic closer to his, in the hopes perhaps of squeezing out my own soundbite off Pasquale's back. This meant that by the time Ebola arrived at my spot, I was occupied. So it skipped me and went to the next. I was saved. God bless Gerard Butler.
He was animated talking to Pasquale. There was indeed some moisture collecting at the corner of his mouth. And some dandruff on his shoulder. But at that moment, I loved him and Pasquale too, both, because they spared me from disaster.
I did get a quick comment from Spittle at AMFAR but had a much better conversation with him at the Artists for Peace and Justice fundraiser later on. It was 1am. He was in fine spirits. The ultimate Free Man with that sh-t eating expression on his face, spreading his arms wide for the photogs. This is not a man who lacks confidence. Cocky bastard. And of course he was ogling every attractive woman in the vicinity like it was their sole purpose in life to worship him.
To his credit though, because he has been quite active in Haiti, Spittle did stop for interviews even though the pressline at that venue was a f-cking mess. He spent several minutes with me, passionately discussing his work in Haiti, his sponsorship of a school there, and told me that it was an immediate yes when Paul Haggis called him up last week to come support the cause. Spittle just happened to be in the neighbourhood, spending some downtime spraying the good the people of Monaco.
After that he was off, inside the club where he spent the night having manly man time with Russell Crowe and trying to decide between several Euro babes fighting for his attention.
I am still skeeved by his spittle, but I do owe his spittle some gratitude. Spittle saved my ass. A free pass then, perhaps for a few weeks.