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Clooney's clinging on to bachelor life.


GEORGE Clooney is single again.

Bad news for rival single fellas, who have much less chance of going home with the buffest babe in the club, now George is back swigging champagne at the bar.

It's very humbling for the younger chaps.

They're certain to come off second best to a 50-year-old bloke sporting more grey than a cloud hanging over Wimbledon's Centre Court.

The only thing 50-year-old men should pull is turnips... in the allotment.

Okay, I admit it. I'm a tad jealous.

I'm nowhere near George's age, yet I look twice as old.

My eyebrows need trimming with a combine harvester, and I've so many hairs sprouting from my nose that the Rainforest Foundation Fund have demanded they receive legal protection. Meanwhile, Sting has organised a search party to hunt for indigenous tribes living in my nostrils.

I'm also flabby round the edges. At least I would be if there were any edges left.

George doesn't have those problems. Apart from the grey hair, he looks like a 27-year-old. Acts like one, too.

He's certainly no fuddy-duddy. The only thing square about him is the fabled Cloonster jaw.

Is it any wonder he has me so miffed? I was really hoping that he'd stop all this nonsense of enjoying himself, and settle down to middle age angst, like the rest of us.

But no, apparently he dumped his stunning girlfriend Elisabetta Canalis after a huge row at his Italian lakeside villa. Is it possible to have a huge row at an Italian lakeside villa? Hottie I certainly couldn't do it. I'd be far too busy struggling to wipe the grin from my face, while repeatedly giggling to myself: "Ooh, look, I'm in an Italian lakeside villa!" Though even if I was in a high-rise flat, I'd find it difficult to argue with a hottie like Italian actress, Elisabetta.

When I'm confronted by a stunning vision of womanhood (which is quite often, believe it or not) I usually just sit back and bask in her glory.

Only rarely do I try to pick the staples from her bellybutton.

Apparently George dumped his chick because she attempted to discuss marriage, and that just isn't part of the written constitution in the United States of George.

This is the guy, after all, who won't even commit to a brand of hair dye.

Why be any different with females? Though it's true that he has been married once, in the dim and distant past, long before he was rich and famous.

Once was enough, apparently. The only sequel he's willing to sign on to is of the Ocean's Eleven variety.

(Maybe Elisabetta should disguise herself as Brad Pitt. That's bound to get her some bling on her finger. Though George may also demand she rob a Las Vegas casino.) Can Clooney keep up the bachelor lifestyle indefinitely? Even film stars have a shelf life, and in 30 or 40 years' time he'll want somebody to empty his bedpan, and listen to all those loving anecdotes about Brad.

I genuinely hope George forgives his Italian temptress and gets down on one knee. (Okay, two knees. Joints are flimsy and unforgiving at 50.) Making the ultimate commitment should not be feared. Tying the knot is nothing like tying a noose.

"True", I hear my fellow married men reply. "It's certainly nothing like tying a noose. At least with a noose it's over fast, with relatively little pain."

But no! There's much to be said for the married state. Such as...

[Note to editor: Could you stick something in round about here, please? Just a couple of paragraphs about wedded bliss.

I've spent the last three hours trying to come up with something believable. And all I've got so far is: (1) When there's two of you, there's twice as much chance of finding a lost remote control.] See what I mean folks? Loads of great reasons for getting married! But that's not all.

Once George is well and truly hitched, and happily under the thumb, he can start thinking about having lots of little Georges.

Imagine all those delightful greyhaired babies, goo-gooing and gaga-ing, in between plotting yet more Ocean's Eleven sequels!

Best of all, a married George, is a George who won't be lounging in the champagne bar.

Which means much more Italian actresses for the rest of us. Though not me, of course. I'm happily hitched and intend to stay that way.

Besides, I'm very particular when it comes to hotties.

No staples in the bellybutton? Then I'm just not that interested, love.
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Title Annotation:Features
Publication:Sunday Mercury (Birmingham, England)
Date:Jun 26, 2011
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