In his underwear.Īs I dabbed iodine on the scrapes sustained while dragging my mandible across the carpet, I reran the tape and at last began to understand how the charismatic and blisteringly intelligent leading man of European cinema (see Lars von Trier's Zentropa), who speaks a twangy Californian English and the velvetiest and most seductive French French imaginable, could find himself in bed with Damon Albarn. Various episodes of VCR programming and breathless rewinding and reviewing later, I concluded that yes, the astonishingly dreamy Französisch-Amerikanski actor Jean-Marc Barr had somehow gotten himself mixed up with Blur. I thought nothing of it for a moment, and then sensory information store kicked in: Wasn't that.? Could it have been.? I caught less than a second of footage featuring a strangely familiar man, then the blood-curdling visage of a smirking Damon Albarn. (I can't explain them, and they come to me unpredictably, but they're always right.) This intuition bellowed Turn on the TV right now! I obeyed.
I had one of my trademark intuitions one day.
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