Dear Colin, It's been a while hasn't it? And my, how you've changed. I remember the night you first walked into my life, well… rode, in fact. Snuggled up on the sofa that Sunday evening, ready to receive my weekly dose of small-
town Celtic culture, then there you were, riding bareback on a stallion, cantering through the fictional Irish village of Ballykissangel.
You were the black-haired, black-eyed, black-souled bad boy who looked so clean atop his white steed. I was so awestruck, I had to put my crumpet down.
So you see, I was one of the first: I knew you before all those nasty little glory-hunters jumped on board. You and me, Col – we go way back. Way back to when you were clean-shaven and lithe, when that lovely white stallion wouldn't wince under the weight of you or cower in fear of the greasy slick you might leave on its back. I know times have been hard, petal, but really, we need to get you sorted out – sit yourself down and we'll have a wee look at where it all went wrong.
Think back to being Ballykissangel's Danny Byrne, when you would help out uncle Eamon, or the time that you and Emma had that snog because you'd helped her pigs give birth. Those were gritty and grotty farmyard antics, but you did a wonderful job of remaining unsullied; you must have regularly flanneled behind the ears and you certainly weren't such a stranger to a razor in those days.
How you gleamed up at me from the front of my Year 7 physics file; how keenly I held that image of your glinting gnashers against my undeveloped chest; how excited I was to hear you'd planned to audition for the grime-free Boyzone but so sadly failed.
You, my dear Colin, were at the very forefront of the 1990s rebellion against the great unwashed and we saluted you.
And then it all began to unravel. In 1998 you appeared in Falling for Dancer. OK, I'll admit it was a period drama and granted there may have been no power-showers in 1930s rural Ireland. It was produced by the BBC, and what with their penchant for penny-pinching perhaps there just wasn't the dollar for a couple of bars of soap. But even after that, when you headed Stateside, the descent into slobbery gathered pace.
Then came Tigerland, your first big cinematic break: trench warfare, army camps, grotty soldiers and muddy faces… it was hardly a Daz advert, was it? You just couldn't stay away, you couldn't keep your fingers out of the mud. Tigerland, American Outlaws, Hart's War – there was not even a glimmer of the unsullied adoration I had once felt. In every one you were quite the grotty grubster. And soon you dragged your love-life into the mire, a four-month marriage, a sex tape with a Playboy model (which may have been an admirable 14 minutes long, but that does not compensate for its grubbiness), an interview in which you claimed that having sex with a prostitute was much like ordering a pizza. Colin, why besmirch your once-so-wondrous character?
While a short set of spy dramas offered a brief glimpse of your shaven face and the return of that perky quiff we love, your private life has taken its toll on your appearance. Miami Vice's ageing Sonny Crockett was no tall task for you, as your face spoke volumes about the hard-partying lifestyle you were then mired in by your own admittance.
Your rendition of that slack-skinned, jowly, doughnut-munching cop was all too convincing and, yes, the beard was back too, coupled with the oil-slick mop that we saw again last week when you appeared on Jonathan Ross's TV chat show.
It's so sad, Colin. I can't tell you how I yearn to see you ride across a screen on that same spotless stallion, how I hope with each new promise of rehab, each wave of redemptive remorse, that you'd be inspired, be it spiritually, mentally or corporeally – just to wash your bloody hair.
And now comes news of Pride and Glory, your hotly awaited new movie, the publicity blurb for which tells us that: "Farrell will star as the investigator's best friend, an officer who may or may not be dirty." Oh Colin, of course you'll be dirty: you always are.
Yours sincerely,
Ella Hickson
The full article contains 786 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
