Sleepy days are often followed with a hard day’s work, and today proved that point without a doubt, and more will follow in the days ahead. That’s not even the worst thing taken from today, far from it in fact, you can argue that keeping yourself busy away from the prospect of playing with your belly button fluff one more time.

But it was after the day’s graft that I find myself once again at the alter of the fabled celebrity. Another premiere closed off Leicester Square, crushing the crowds in a hurtful attempt to keep the general public away from people who appear in films which don’t just frequent the shelves in your favourite back alley stockist.

You would think by the first and only encounter so far with such a spectacle that I would have been out of my mind to venture another attempt at mingling with the crowds, in a vain attempt to see such people like Michael Caine, who basically has a movie credit list longer than my arm, or Maggie Gybns…Gnry…Grenade in the flesh simply to shout about the type of Movies I would see her star in.

But this one had caught the eye for the simple reason that it was for the European showing of The Dark Knight, the second of the remade Batman series which made huge strides away from “Comic book Skegness” to “Dark and moody Butlins holiday camp”.

The film had been overshadowed of course by the death of the Joker off screen, Heath Ledger who died aged 28 after an overdose, had by all accounts given such a show-stealing performance, that his co-stars gave him the limelight far more, and all bets for the man to win an Oscar are off.

In the UK we don’t find out until Thursday this week how good the film truly is for ourselves, the humble paying public but so far the reviews have basically painted a Picasso. A masterpiece worthy of the time and effort given by the cast and crew.

However, that aside, I now firmly believe that unless you are on that carpet of which few people tread except if you are one of the Borg, I mean the PR people, it’s a complete waste of time to even bother to turn up.

You would have more fun picking you nose hairs clean using a steak knife and a CD of polka hits.

The Police were on their best behaviour, constantly moving the ever increasing crowd around like John Wayne moving his herd to market. The stars kept themselves to themselves around one tiny area, with only the bloke who plays Harvey Dented in the film lasting longer than 20 seconds with the crowd.

The showcase of the affair, the motoring of the bat cycle from the film, complete with flaps that go up and down a lot like someone suffering the shakes, proved that it can go backwards and forwards a bit. Sometimes, more than once.

The Magic of the movie business once again, is shown up to be like Britney Spears. Once everyone wanted to know, now just look at what happened to the old fart. Frankly, it would be too much to endure people standing on my feet again for the fleeting glimpse of people who, it appears are rather happy in their own world, perhaps never ever wishing to step into ours.

Some would say that’s the opinion of someone who is envious of the positions built up by people who work hard to get where they are today. In this instance, you’d probably be right.

It gets discouraging in a sense to be reminded of the simple fact that you are just a bloke in a crowd while others nearby can swoon around like they own us all. They know they do too, and somehow it’s difficult to argue with that. They entertain us, and these days, that is power.

In some ways you want a piece of that and you start wondering how you get it. Then the answers hits you like a well placed impact to the joy department. Talent is one thing, but you have to know the right people, a fact of which London excels at pointing out to you again and again, just like when that lady walks around on the street with her skirt caught in her knickers, and the women all rush to tell her the fatal mistake.

(Us men just perve. Nature wins again!)

I suppose until such time through either luck, talent or those places which get you the tickets for you without breaking a sweat, and that day comes when I can walk down the poo-stained street and into a cinema with people in the know, let’s put this slumbering beast to bed and instead worry about what’s growing between my toenails. Far more entertaining….