KEY POINTS:
Marc Ellis tried to kill me this morning. He did! Truly!
Well... sort of. I was walking to the Herald on Sunday offices from my apartment when I crossed the road and this car - a vintage Mercedes something like Jonathan Hart would have driven back in 1979
- was slowing down for the red light, then it saw me, and suddenly lunged forward nudging towards me!
Admittedly I was multi-tasking: yakking on my mobile while jay-walking - but hey, who doesn't? And the cars had stopped still for the red light. Well, all of them, except the Merc with the maniacal cackler behind the wheel - Ellis. He thought it was a real hoot. I got quite the fright.
It's not the first time I've had a near-death experience at the hands of a celebrity behind the wheel.
Just last month, I was crossing, okay jay-walking, across Ponsonby Rd and I waited at the median island, which is just as well, really, because this car sped up as I was about to step out at and it was Jude Dobson crunched over the steering wheel! Hey Jude, I wanted to say, what gives with the Speedy Gonzalez driving? But then I figured, on the bright side, if Dobson had accidentally hit me, at least I'd have expected she'd have picked up a thing or two about first aid after those nana health advertorials she does. I was in safe hands.
Another time I was in the passenger seat of a car - a little red Barina - with Aaron Jeffrey driving. Gilda Kirkpatrick was in the back and we were on a booze run to get some alcohol for a party. Jeffrey was driving a car South Pacific Productions had lent him while he was working on the set of Outrageous Fortune. He was acting as our chauffeur and going home early to call his beloved-at-the-time, Peta Wilson. The pair has since split. But I digress. Jeffrey handled the streets of Auckland's CBD like he was on the race track in Monaco. His fast-paced driving skills were very impressive - and very sexy.
What is it with the bad boys that I find so appealing? Jeffrey's attempt to morph into Michael Schumacher on Fort St and Ellis' humorous attempt to scare the bejeesus out of me were all quite frightening, and yet, inherently sexy.
The same goes for the rock stars I met at MTV's Snow Jam gig last week. While the good boys, the safe boys, were tucked up in bed at home asleep, the naughty ones were partying at the clubhouse at Terrace Downs.
I should know, I was attracted to them like moths to a flame. There was cheeky MTV presenter Darren McMullen with the sexy Scottish lilt offering me Jagermeister, and then, gorgeous Jonny Sonic from the Potbelleez handing around a bottle of vodka to scull from. Hardly gentlemanly, and yet, so appealing. What gives? Why do women always fancy the bad boys?
Rachel Glucina
