So George is getting married. What shall I wear? Sackcloth and ashes? Or something with nice loose weave like burlap? The latter is most suitable for the rending of garments that must be in order when the most famous bachelor in history finally throws in the towel and kisses his new missus. Or not.
I'm with my fellow columnist Deborah Hill Cone on this one. Clooney never did it for me. Too smiley, a little too unctuous. Like Deborah, I prefer 'em rough around the edges, as opposed to purring.
But I enjoyed George's steadfast refusal to submit to the bondage of matrimony. It spoke of a certain mental toughness. Not for him the easy comfort of a wife and helpmeet, even while so many of his colleagues were favouring that indulgence.
The McConnagheys and the Damons and the Afflecks of this world might have been breaking their legs racing to the altar, but George just went on dating former wrestlers and cocktail waitresses, defiantly unconquered.
How shocking it is then that he's finally putting a ring on it. He's engaged to a lovely woman whose name escapes me. How did she do it? That's what we all want to know, according to certain websites, the ones that like to present women as better fishers of men than apostles, even.