If there’s anything the British hate more than a famous person trying their hand at something new, it’s either French or was executed at Nuremberg.
Whether it’s Ronnie Wood’s daubings, or Madonna’s children’s books, nothing makes you tear your grizzled proletariat hair out like the famous gits who think they can do it all.
Take Hollywood pouty-chops Scarlett Johansson. When she announced she was recording an album of cover versions by Tom Waits last year (Anywhere I Lay my Head, out this week) you could practically hear the tsunami of bile crashing across the Atlantic.
It didn’t help that her only musical performance thus far - a droning karaoke number in Lost In Translation - showcased all the vocal dexterity of The Cheeky Girls combined with the soulful harmonies of Margarita Pracatan.
But let’s not be quick to judge Ms Johansson, her first single Falling Down has garnered, if not glowing, then at least not openly hostile reviews.
A turn on Later ... with Jools Holland is surely in the offing. If not, I hear the Sugababes are seeking a fourth member.
