Next stop Hollywood....

IS it a bird? Is it a plane? No it's me. Today, dear readers, I announce my latest plan to break into the world of superstardom. This time last week I was basking in being an award-winning feature writer with regional journalism at my feet, and a head the size of Argentina.

IS it a bird? Is it a plane?

No it's me.

Today, dear readers, I announce my latest plan to break into the world of superstardom.

This time last week I was basking in being an award-winning feature writer with regional journalism at my feet, and a head the size of Argentina.


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This week I am wearing bright blue and exposing my underwear.

Trying my hand at acting in the exciting world of the Ipswich amateur dramatic scene, I have decided to take the next step… Hollywood.

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I've been before - well I had three days at Los Angeles International Airport eating burgers - but I never got talent spotted. I was under exposed, and this is no longer the case.

So instead of agreeing with Gladys Knight, giving up, selling my old car and leaving on the midnight train to somewhere, I am going to try my hand at the movies.

Always keen to see myself on the silver screen, I am dreaming of soon being on location, emerging from a sumptuous superstar caravan, demanding iced water, flying in pizza from New York, posing for a double page photoshoot on gracious Ipswich town centre living for Hello! magazine, and appearing tired and emotional at the Oscar ceremony.

Spurred on by my massive weight loss - now a whopping 17 pounds - and latest plans for a new Superman film, I'm thinking about screen testing for the title role.

I've learnt my lines, sewn myself into some Lycra and I am ready to fight the forces of evil.

And at least I am a journalist-one half of my role will be easy to perform-and of course Clark Kent and I have already lots in common:

We both enjoy head turning good looks-though Clark might be a tiny bit thinner.

We both work as journalists-though Clark isn't really interested in hot cross buns at Ipswich's primary schools.

We both work for hard hitting, high octane newspapers-though The Daily Planet is fictional.

We both have editors who wear visors-though mine does it for show I think.

We both work with nosey women-who doesn't.

We both come from strange places-the planet Krypton and Newmarket.

We both look good in blue-as long as it matches my eyes.

We both do justice to anatomically correct body suits-though mine needed slight enhancement.

We both never age-thank god for Dead Sea mud face packs.

We both have no limits to our abilities-though I don't do so many press ups.

I know the Daily Planet will be much like the Evening Star. I shall be sniffing out exclusives, dishing the dirt and finding out about Lex Luther's dastardly deeds unlike Clark Kent who never seems to write anything - let alone sit through a meeting of East Suffolk Primary Care Trusts.

Though the costume change might not be as quick, as my alter ego Superfatman I shall declare war on quiche-ridden buffets, rid the world of middle-lane drivers, deport people who don't clear up after their dogs, remove fixed speed cameras and bring back manners.

So as I was cleaning my silver - a cocktail shaker and cigarette case - in my little Ipswich sitting room this week, my mind was racing with the endless possibilities special powers will bring.

I wonder if willpower to diet is among them?

IT is with deep regret I today announce my failure to secure absolute victory at the mayor's charity quiz 2006.

Though in a four-strong team that included the cream of the talent endemic in the Evening Star newsroom, our combined brain power and comparative youth could not break into the top three.

We didn't even win on the raffle.

However, four glasses of red wine softened the blow and as the walls of the Ipswich Corn Exchange began to spin I admit I still enjoyed myself, despite the impertinence of those who beat us.

Ours was thankfully a respectable defeat, we managed joint sixth, out of 40-ish, and a question came up on Camilla Cornwall - I knew it would.

Margaret, the assistant costume lady at Ipswich Operatic and Dramatic Society, measured me up for amateur theatricals this week.

A few costumes, to include a French custom's officer uniform, a Swiss farmer and a reveller in a Parisian nightclub, are needed for my cameo parts in Summer Holiday at the end of March.

Well I say cameo parts but 'dressing the stage' would be a more accurate description.

Anyway, after messing around for a few minutes with a tape measure - at least she didn't get out a trundle wheel - Margaret informed me that after her calculations I am considerably more than 200 inches all over, a worrying statistic really.

This total, which is bound to be reduced by the time of the performance, was a shock to my system.

However, I suspect the biggest shock will be among the ticket-buying IODS audience who will have paid to enjoy the sight of me prancing around the stage in lederhosen.

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