Emma Thompson on the Golden Globes

Dearest Chas -

You really are a MENDACIOUS OLD TROUT. I am no more the editor of your “Women’s Page” than I am your personal lap-dancer. These are letters in long-hand written for FUN and nothing more and if you don’t own up to it, I shall resign.

The last one got me into no end of trouble – every time I came into the house Greg frisked me for hidden fripperies. I have had several items confiscated and/or returned to the shop.

Another unfortunate result is that people keep on coming up to me on the tube to ask where they can get three pairs of socks for 70p. The only reason I’m continuing to oblige you is that I saw my esteemed accountant the other day (Mr Simnock is his name) and he said that in the face of all the carnage in the news, reading about Greg’s underwear relieved his gloom slightly. I daresay there is something to be said for silliness at a time like this. Which brings me neatly onto the subject of awards season. I went to the Golden Globes (how deeply silly is that name? Eight out of ten, surely) last weekend because I and Mr Hoffman had been nominated for Last Chance Harvey – most kindly, I hasten to add.

I made Greg agree to come with me before telling him he needed a nice new outfit. This occasioned a very free and frank exchange of views culminating in my thundering out of the house to plant bulbs in the ancient brogues he was insisting were “perfectly good enough.” I left him darning the elbow of the Nicole Farhi suit I bought him fifteen years ago which is now covered with mysterious and irremovable fluff, and muttering darkly about the sartorial husbandry of the aristocracy who always wear things until they fall apart. He’s a Geordie, for fuck’s sake.

I came back from town with a very elegant Emporio Armani suit which was IN THE SALE, oh thank you, Goddess of Marriage, so I didn’t have to ingest the receipt and even some new knickers from Dolce & Gabbana ~ £21 in the sale.

“In the sale??” he shrieked, and threatened to wear them for the entire trip without changing just to get his money’s worth.

Anyway, the Globes, what an eccentric event it is. It occurs at the Beverly Hilton Hotel in a room so crowded that in the event that you have to get to the stage, it’s like getting off the underground during rush hour when (unlike SOME) you have politely obeyed the endless injunctions to move down the carriage.

Wall to wall stars and starlets from big and little screen plus a host of beleaguered waiters and cameramen carrying food and dragging quantities of cabling around. It really is a wonder no one gets injured or even killed. I suppose folk are cheerful enough to want to clear a path – to the extent that they will sit on each other’s heads to get out of your way. (I turned around at one point and saw Greg in Stephen Daldry’s lap.)

The cardinal virtue of this event is that there are little breaks in the proceedings during which you can do things, like standing on a chair in an attempt to reach some oxygen, visiting the ladies to wring out your spanx (it’s hotter than the tube in August) or chatting to a nearby famous person whose acquaintance you fancy claiming upon your return to Blighty. (Blighty. Christ, how old am I? A million?) During the first break we just sponged down Winslet, who’d received an award almost before the lights went down and was hyperventilating in consequence.

During the second one, I decided to approach Bruce and Patti Springsteen’s table. I stood there with such an idiotic expression on my face that they had to say hello. I offered to kiss the hem of his garment. He politely declined. Patti said they’d just watched Love Actually again with their kids. I curtseyed and returned to my seat secure in the knowledge that I could now and henceforth refer to them as “Bruce & Patti” and accurately describe them as very nice people. I was busy being thrilled about that when Kate won another award. Went up to her for and said “That’s typical, MB. You wait years for a blinking Globe and then two come along at once.” I also suggested she had them made into earrings.

By the third break I am desperate for a wee but don’t want to leave the room in case Kate wins another award. That was around the time Mickey Rourke won ~ I watched his approach with interest ~ people literally leaping out of his way, it was like the Red Sea parting. “I loved that film,” I said as he went by. Understandably, I don’t think he either heard or believed me. It is fantastic, though, and you must all see it. He wouldn’t give a luxury men’s quarterly house room, I suspect.

Maggie Gyllenhaal came to say hello and we squeaked at each other excitedly about the fact that she is coming to live in England and play our heroine in the new Nanny McPhee. She is a wonderful woman and very well brought-up, by screenwriters, so it’s no surprise.

At some point, Mr Hoffman and I were accosted by the Global employee and hoiked off backstage to give the award for Best Director. When we walked out onto the stage, it looked as though everyone had left. But no, they’d all gathered up the back to drink and shout at each other. Most peculiar. It was a true pleasure to hand the trophy to Danny Boyle (nice, polite, clean young person) who seemed ever so pleased. It was a popular win and suddenly everyone seemed to surge towards the stage again to clap.

After that it was pretty much over so we screeched at as many famous people as we could before leaving out the back way where ~ o joy ~ we found Bruce and Patti in the car-park. Another short but warm exchange ensured that I could now claim they were close friends despite not knowing what country they live in.

I got back to the hotel feeling very satisfied with it all and more than ready to change into a baggy track-suit and order a hamburger. Greg was looking puzzled. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why, after all those months of campaigning, spending and longing for the nominations, does everyone completely ignore what’s going on on the night?” He was mystified. We retired to bed none the wiser.

The next day I got up and decided to go for a swim. Had forgotten to pack bathers and borrowed Greg’s D&G knickers which I wore with a vest, so we did get out money’s worth out of them after all.

Must stop. I’m supposed to be working.

Weather’s bloody awful. Might make some soup.

Lots of Love - Em

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