As nude pictures of Scarlett Johansson fly round the internet after being apparently hacked from the phone, I can't help thinking that there has been some kind of horrible mistake and she really should be my girlfriend.

Priapic idiocy, thy name is man. We’ve all got in mind one celebrity we’re just waiting to win over with our quick humour in a chance meeting.  I was brazenly satisfied with myself when I woke up from a dream when I’d been debonair, charming and not too needy at all with Scarlett Johansson. So when she got married my emotions were so raw that I’d cry at an episode of the OC, and not even one from the stellar first two series.

Hopelessness, regret and self-loathing are my usual companions, and I’d like to think it’s the same for all men in the country on Sunday mornings. For me, though, the perpetual fug of alcoholic nausea – a feeling so consistent it’s now almost comforting – was replaced with the discovery that clown prince Ryan Reynolds possessed more seduction capital than I ever will.  Ryan Reynolds had married Scarlett Johansson, presumably on the back of his star quality and charisma.  You know, the same winning charisma he’d used to carry the 90 minute tit joke marathon Van Wilder.

She was the only woman who understood me, never argued with me, and vitally, who I’d never let down in bed. I first saw her in a Tokyo hotel, and she’s never left my mind.

In the past, I’d always been able to suffer the indignity of her past boyfriends. They were always clearly transitory, and women have needs – I’m no chauvinist.  In truth, I have to admit that I’ve not always been faithful to Scarlett.  Besides, I’d always been confident I could win her back with a witty deconstruction of her subtle performance in The Nanny Diaries.  It’s fucking brilliant!

She was the only woman who understood me, never argued with me, and vitally, who I’d never let down in bed.

Still, fancying a celebrity leads to inevitable problems in real life. The first sign of a jaunty wanking obsession becoming socially toxic can come about easier than you ever wanted to know.  Knowing her favourite band is something you can get away with, and knowing her first Academy Award success might even win you a pub quiz.  However, knowing her resting heart rate is going to get you at best an awkward examination from your friends and at worst a restraining order from Hollywood.

I’ve had plenty of moments in my life that I don’t want to recall.  Any Danny Dyer film.  Reading the words ‘Danny’ and then ‘Dyer’. Seeing the chippy bozo on TV and hearing the cogs in his head move as he tried walking and breathing at the same time, I assume on his way to meet a fisty psychopath.  But the worst one would be hearing these words leave my lips, ‘I was reading her interview in my girlfriend’s Elle.’  Especially when I was lying – I was reading it on a fan’s website where half a page of an Elle interview had been crudely scanned onto the ‘Misc photos’ section.

Worse than that still is the killer question,

‘What makes you think she’d fancy you?’

Literally any single thing you then say in your favour is going to get a twenty minute, almost aggressive retort from your friend.  If there’s a quicker way to get an old friend to list all five hundred of your mental and physical failings, I don’t know it. Yet.
Then there’s the constant erosion of self-esteem. Do you really need to put yourself up against the chiseled bastard millionaire that the object of your affection is fated to marry? What about the next chiseled bastard millionaire that she’s fated to marry?  Actors might be, optimistically, half an idiot savant, but their relentless veneration only highlights your failures. How can a celebrity conceivably cheer himself up?

Buy an island.

How can you cheer yourself up?

Buying Tesco Finest Sausages.  At least 80% pork in this sausage – you won’t cry yourself to sleep tonight