I think my little boy Jackson is influenced by all the wrong role models. First it was the Tellytubbies, and he started making annoying nonsensical noises. Then it was the Power Rangers and he started to get quite violent – throwing shapes around the place and karate-chopping me when I was watching TV. Now it's gone one worse – he seems to be under the influence of Matthew McConaughyee, Maconahayee, Mcconahauhie... Mahogany – Matthew Mahogany, the Texan actor most famous for never wearing a shirt and nude bongo-playing sessions. Jackson has taken the Mahogany ethos to heart – he spends the days permanently nude wandering around our lakeside cottage deep in the heart of Ontario. Often he'll wander through the woods and down to the dock where he'll loll about naked and wave to passing boats.
He'll probably have to leave here soon and pop down to Los Angeles for a week or so to make a crappy comedy movie to get some more money. He will need some not to buy any new clothes.
As it so happens I actually ran into Matthew Mahogany recently. If only I'd known that he'd be such an influence on my son, I'd have had a word. Actually, it might not have sunk in – he was in quite a confused state. I was in Nicaragua filming a TV show and we had taken a day off from climbing volcanoes and zip lining into volcanoes and skiing down volcanoes... to be honest, I'd had my fill of volcanoes. Anyway, so we take a day off and head for San Juan Del Sur – a gorgeous little beach resort on the Pacific coast just north of the Costa Rican border.
We check into our hotel and then head off down to the beach for a spot of supper. We're sitting in a lovely seaside restaurant and I've just ordered a ceviche and a nice bottle of Chilean wine – all is well in the world. Then I notice a guy on the beach. He is shirtless, has one of those torches you wear on your head and he's stumbling around looking for his flip-flop. He's pretty drunk and has quite a lot of trouble standing up. He eventually gives up on his quest and staggers towards our table. He tries to slip past us but doesn't succeed and smashes into us sending everything flying. Matthew Mahogany (for it is he) mumbles an attempt at an apology and stumbles on out of the restaurant narrowly avoiding being hit by an oncoming motorcycle. The irony of the situation is that a British couple sitting nearby look over to where the commotion is and recognise me. They come over and say hello and how surprised they are to see me here. I tell them that they've just missed a far bigger fish – but they don't believe me – it's the problem with being a prankster: all my best stories are ignored.
It turns out that there are clips of Mahogany on YouTube from further antics that night that ended with a couple of locals giving him a lift home and stealing his mobile and a couple of thousand dollars. Bugger, I could have used that cash... expect a new comedy-lite movie from him very soon.
I did find his flip-flop – it was on the beach not very far from where we were sitting and I came across it the next morning on a walk. I brought it home and it now joins my other motley collection of celebrity bric-a-brac – a signed plastic turd by Gilbert and George, a drawing of two rabbits having sex by Damien Hirst and a paper plate that Marianne Faithfull ate some trifle off. I might curate an exhibition soon. I'll obviously invite the family – it'll be fun. There will be a strict dress code – or in my son Jackson's case, he'll just have to get dressed. Nudity is fine when cottaging, but not in the big city.Reuse content