Are you ready for my close-up?

Journalists tend to be curious animals. And a tad vain too. We never mind seeing our names in print and if the editors insist on putting our pictures on the page, too, so be it. And this, by the way, has been vanity week for me. I am a star of television and screen, don't you know?

Journalists tend to be curious animals. And a tad vain too. We never mind seeing our names in print and if the editors insist on putting our pictures on the page, too, so be it. And this, by the way, has been vanity week for me. I am a star of television and screen, don't you know?

I have been in New York long enough for the cable news stations to have my name on their Rolodexes. I don't delude myself. It's not that I am especially profound in my observations, but I have the accent. When they need a talking head to speak about anything with a British angle, they call. This time it was MSNBC. Would I discuss London's reaction to America's war on terrorism?

These appearances scare me to death. A colleague taught me a trick for not losing your balance in front of an audience of millions - hold one finger with your other hand under the desk. I used to do TV more often. When Diana, Princess of Wales died, it was a daily event. I turn down anything to do with the royals now, because I don't care enough to be interesting on the subject. But my curiosity was tweaked the other day when I heard about a movie being made out of town. They were looking for extras. It was a medium-budget indie movie about racism and corruption in small-town USA circa 1952. The hero was a reporter, uncovering the machinations of a mayor cleansing his burg of all minorities. Chinese Americans and American Indians had "vanished", presumed murdered.

Even if this had been a kung fu flick with a naked Jennifer Lopez battling aliens on the Great Wall, I would have been tempted. For fun. But, not only did this sound fun, it had integrity, too. Being shot in black and white, it was searching out that still-soft nerve about persecution in the McCarthy era. Never mind Michael Moore and Fahrenheit 9/11. The toast at Cannes 2005 will be Ghostdancer.

There was nothing to lose. What could they expect from an extra? I volunteered and was told my part was an undercover cop. This, I assumed would mean loitering in the shadows at the back of a bar. It would be simple. Actually, it was a bit more involved.

How many times have I walked the streets of Manhattan and found my way blocked by film crews on location? They snarl traffic and bark at you to move along. But, somehow, you forgive them the inconvenience, because, if you are lucky you might spy a star. I once spent an hour in the East Village gawking at Goldie Hawn and Steve Martin playing catch with a large salami. So it was odd to find myself on the other side of the fence. Curious locals had gathered at the set and my arrival, in Fifties suit and brimmed hat, stirred a fresh ripple of excitement. Was I famous? Did they recognise me? Nope. You could almost see their disappointment. No MSNBC junkies in this crowd.

The scene: it's late and reporter-hero meets local radio commentator and crony of mayor in the street. (This is Radioman, played by Bill Cain, recently in King Lear on Broadway with Christopher Plummer.) The two characters argue. A black sedan careens out of the night, screeches to a halt. (Note "screeches".) Lead goon (me) gets out, hustles Radioman into back seat. We speed away. Simple. The whole sequence, assuming it doesn't end up on the cutting room floor, takes maybe a minute.

But things got complicated. First the director, Alan Blumberg, was unsatisfied with my hat. The brim had gone floppy and I looked more bumpkin than tough guy. A replacement was found. Then he had a question. Would I be OK doing the driving? That sounded fine, even though the car was a 1950 Pontiac. There was another small detail. On the way from the city, its brake line had somehow got cut. No foot brake at all. I would have to "screech" - not missing my spot right in front of the cameras - by fumbling for a handbrake under the dash.

I managed, more or less, even though the first take was scrapped when I accidentally hit the horn with my forehead. "Cut!" Should you see this film by chance, look out for the car slaloming down the hill in the dark about halfway through. The hat you will see through the windscreen is me trying to find that damned handbrake before I mow down the entire crew.

Meanwhile, I am being realistic. My career in the films was brief and is already over. (Although, not that brief. It took the director seven hours until three in the morning to shoot what I have just described.) As for my future in television news, it would have happened by now if it was ever going to.

Why I'll never be a low-carb lover

It's a bovine blessing. My deli has ample supplies of Laughing Cow cheese. The Minnesota makers of these creamy triangles cannot produce them fast enough since they were touted as the perfect guilt-free snack in the South Beach Diet. They have become gold, but I can buy both the full-fat and diet varieties any day I please. Full fat for me, of course. Nor am I tempted by the billboard ads for a new low-carb wine. The chardonnay is called "One.6", the merlot "One.9".

I don't get it. I'm a full-bodied man and the idea of a "thin" wine just doesn't appeal. As for Coca-Cola, it has been bombarding us all summer with ads for its new brand, C2, with half the carbs of normal Coke. What about Diet Coke? I thought it had no carbs already.

What's next? Low-carb lipstick? (Women ingest two pounds of lipstick in a lifetime.) It seems you could successfully market a low-carb anything. I want a low-carb newspaper (no more New York Times), a low-carb pet, low-carb air and, if possible, a low-carb lover.