Being Steve Coogan

19th May ‘97, Saturday, a few minutes past 11pm
In my old armchair, immersed in thinking … without a mask and all those comedies – “You are the best actor! What an incredible new production! Please give me an autograph!” Silence. Those people … they’re lying to me all the time, all of them … Silly silence. On the outside, the strong, intelligent Steve Coogan; inside, a small creature, real only for this diary, sad, miserable and lonely.
But wait a moment … just think, I have a “cousin”, Alfred Molina. That Italian connection and the ridiculous family tree with all the names of my grand, grand, grandfathers and mothers … He’s a total jerk. He thought I would believe that nonsensical story and say: “Yes, we should do a film together.” … and then maybe I would play Steve Coogan. Everybody has needs. People think about their own interests; like him – a poor actor without future, a fatty, plump ball with the enormous body leaning over the table, the slanting eyes saying as if in a hypnosis: “Just do it for me! I want to be as popular as you! Think about the money and people who may buy this poor story!” Ridiculous! How on earth did he make it up? All his sickly compliments on my position, popularity, films, even the coat … Yeah, he was right, it’s good material for a comedy!
Today in the café I tried to be cool-blooded, reserved, to tell him: “I just can’t stand your falsehood. I want the truth.” He seemed to be a small intolerable intruder who wanted my private phone number too! People are ridiculous. I make comedies but life is a big comedy, a black comedy! Drinking real tea, which is very hard to come by here, I was just thinking about him, his films and acting, nothing good, the girl who didn’t recognize him, those pathetic documents in his folder. All this made me sick of Alfred Molina, my alleged cousin … He was cheating all the time and couldn’t act it well.

Palm trees and Hollywood – the city of money, business, bustle and insincerity. I miss my Britain so much; having tea in the afternoon (just another stereotype about us), or watching raindrops falling down, doing nothing, being a normal man, not acting myself. Even this old armchair reminds me of my Britain … Alone with this diary. Why am I writing down all my feelings and thoughts? In order to forget, or to keep them in my memory?
Someone next door is watching television, taking a moment to relax. On the floor above, a girl is singing in the shower, a rather mock star … And me in my old armchair, now without that stupid silence, only with stupid people, who pester me everyday. Popularity is a curse … eminent people, frauds of dreams ….
When I close my eyes I see Britain, summer-green grass, light breeze and refreshing drizzle. I’m standing outside in the rain. I don’t see a single soul on the horizon. The world without people, the smell of home. And I spread my wings high in the sky, the wings of art, truth and freedom.