Some time ago, I entered a contest. The prize was a chance to star alongside George Clooney in a Nespresso commercial. I never heard back from the contest organizers, so I suppose they picked someone else, which is a shame, really, because with the number of Nespressos I down per day, I was the perfect candidate.
I’ve always found Mr. Clooney rather yummy, and I’m sure that a couple of hours spent in his wobbly-headed, charming company wouldn’t be too much of a drag. Come to think of it, as anyone who has ever seen my walk can attest, wobbly heads are something George and I have in common. We’d probably look quite funny ambling down the street together, sort of like those weird little plastic dogs sometimes seen on the back window ledges of cars, though I doubt this common trait has anything to do with drinking too much coffee.
I don’t go out of my way to drink Nespresso because Mr. Clooney endorses it; like millions of other people, I have simply fallen prey to Nespresso’s fabulously practical coffee machines and am now handcuffed to the brand. And while I’m aware that the hundreds of capsules I go through every year leave a carbon footprint worthy of the Yeti’s entire family, let me assure you that my large feet carry me around the local recycling plant faster than you can read a Starbucks menu.
The other day, while zipping around the village recycling facility with yet another trunk-load of semi-sorted rubbish, I ran into one of my wackier girlfriends. There, squirming beneath the rapacious eye of the man who ensures that, since there’s a place for everything, everything’s going to be BLOODY well put into its place OR ELSE, we giggled up a zany idea.
We imagined a customized Nespresso bin, with a giant, laughing George Clooney on its side. Gathered around it were throngs of women, cheerfully feeding the obliging superstar endless mouthfuls of multicolored capsules. Seriously, could recycling get any more appealing?
Indeed it could, we decided, shoving empty glass bottles into color coded containers, our nostrils pooh-poohing the fetid fumes of the communal compost heap. Then, while pouring used cooking oil into greasy barrels, we got completely carried away, predicting that if the credit crunch becomes any crunchier, feeding George down at the recycling plant might even turn into a choice activity for a girl’s night out. Bring a blindfold and you’ve got a grown-up version of “Pin the Tail on the Donkey”!
And while on the subject of loony (no pun intended) recycling ideas, what were PETA (People for the Ethnic Treatment of Animals) thinking when they recently approached George Clooney with the concept of CloFu?
Apparently, PETA believed that people all over the world would stampede health food shops, clamoring for tofu, if they infused it with Mr. Clooney’s Eau de Armpit. I’m supposing the idea was to get the superstar nice and sweaty, hand him a couple of towels, take them back and give them a good squeeze. The mashed soya beans would then be marinated in the precious essence, prior to being whisked away and elegantly packaged, ready to be feasted on by the star-struck masses. Thankfully, according to reliable(ish) sources (my local free newspaper), it seems that Mr. Clooney will be keeping his armpits to himself.
As much as I love animals, I wouldn’t have entered a contest to star alongside George Clooney in a CloFu commercial. I can, however, picture him delivering the following tag line with a debonair, somewhat bewildered expression: “CloFu? Whatever next?”