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Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been way too long since my last confession, and these are my sins.

I … I … I don’t know where to start. What’s that, Father? At the beginning, you say?

Well, Father, if I am to bare my soul, I suppose it all started when that casting woman came knocking at our front door. She said she was looking to cast a family in an upcoming, big-budget remake and that a mate of mine had pointed her in my direction.

I was unemployed at the time, having just come out of a long, long winter. The cupboards were bare, and with three mouths to feed and no other prospects on the horizon, I jumped at the chance, especially given it was something I truly loved; indeed, something I believed was my true calling: acting.

Up to then I’d only been an amateur thespian treading the boards down at the local village hall. I understudied the role of Baloo in our troupe’s pantomime production of The Jungle Book, played Aloysius in Bridey—the local rag wrote a glowing piece about my mastery of stillness and muteness—and then there was that action piece I did, a bit of a walk-on/walk-off role in The Winter’s Tale, chasing Antigonus off the stage. But now Mildred, Bubba and I were being offered film work. Paid film work, no less, and I could barely contain my excitement.

They flew us to London, and we spent a day screen-testing. You know, stirring porridge, posturing in chairs, making beds and enunciating those all-important ‘Who’s been?’ lines that are so pivotal to the plot.

A month later, the casting woman phoned me. She said shooting at Hampstead Heath would begin midsummer and asked if we were still interested. I said, ‘Lady, do bears shit in the woods?’ She laughed and said, ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then?’

Next thing I knew, we’re shacked up in a classy den near Pinewood Studios. With all the trappings. Then came the cast’s first get-together. They drove us to the studio in a limousine, and we ended up in this plush room with a buffet to die for.

And then she walked into the room, Father, and that’s when the sinning began, for she was none other than Tina Trubble, a doe-eyed beauty who had played all the great fairy-tale heroines on the silver screen; you know, Father, your Snow Whites, your Rapunzels, your Little Red Riding Hoods. She was the most famous actor in the world, adored by fans, directors, producers and merchandisers. But there had been rumblings in the press after her latest film. Critics panned it, suggesting she wasn’t that good an actor as she acted the same way in every film except for a change in the hue of her wig. And that’s why she walked into the room that day, for she was in desperate need of a hit and had begged the producers to cast her as the lead in a blockbuster, action-packed remake of Goldilocks and the Three Bears—complete with a state-of-the-art golden wig and with Mildred, Bubba and me as the support act.

Now, Father, I’ll admit being a little star-struck when Tina walked into the room that morning. Even Mildred noticed, for I remember her whispering in my ear, ‘You can close your mouth now, Eugene.’

After we had a bit of a meet and greet and I stood there blushing and tongue-tied before Tina, we got stuck into rehearsals for four weeks. Filming took six weeks rather than the scheduled five, as it took an extra week because, standing there before fairy-tale royalty, I kept fluffing my lines when shooting the climactic scene when the bears confront the golden girl.

Shooting wrapped up in late autumn, and we headed home to the den for a quiet life of domesticity and some shut-eye. At least while the film was in post-production until midwinter. I’ll admit I had little sleep during those few months. I tossed and turned and groaned. Mildred said I was like a bear with a sore tooth and she’d book me a dentist once we came out of our torpor. I told her it wasn’t my tooth. She asked if it was because I was excited about the upcoming release of the film. Blushing, I said, ‘Sort of.’ I’ll admit, Father, I was excited about the pending release of the movie, but that wasn’t the cause of my insomnia. No, what kept me awake on those long, wintry nights was the thought of seeing Tina again, of hearing her throaty laugh, of looking into her twinkling eyes, of smelling her heavenly perfume. And I can’t tell you, Father, how I fantasised about tasting and touching her.

The studio called, and they booked us in for the premiere screening and follow-up promos. And that, Father, was when the real sinning, the deadly sinning, began.

The film debuted at the Sundance Film Festival in late January and won the Grand Jury Prize. Mildred, Bubba and I then set out with Tina on a whirlwind, worldwide promotional tour. We met the President, the Pope and Putin all in the same week. It was complete and utter madness, Father. The culinary elite wooed Mildred for the secret to her porridge, and the Academy nominated me for an Oscar for best actor in a supporting role. I missed out to Tom Cruise, who won for Tommy Boy, a six-hour autobiographical action-thriller about his life. He received nominations for best director, best editor, best screenplay writer, best producer, best original score composer, best cinematographer, best production designer, best costume designer (he sewed everything, I’m told), best sound mixer, best stunt person, best actor (for playing himself) and, of course, best actor in a supporting role (playing his identical twin brother, Tim Cruise, who shunned fame and fortune in Tinseltown to work a lawn-mowing run in Syracuse, New York). Rumour had it Tom had a hand in the hair and make-up, catering and lead gofering during those quieter moments on set. It was a big night for Tom. He won 12 Oscars, and half-a-dozen Scientologists carried his haul to the after-party.

I missed the BAFTAs later that month. I was bug-eyed, buggered and grizzly, as I’d survived on nothing but coffee since Sundance. The studio did the right thing, and I spent a week at the Betty Ford Clinic. You wouldn’t believe who I bumped into there, Father, but I can’t tell you as I signed a confidentiality clause when I checked out.

At the end of February, Mildred and I arrived in Berlin. Bubba stayed in England to catch up on a bit of schooling, so Mildred and I treated it like a second honeymoon. We stayed in a plush suite at the Hotel Adlon, dined on salmon and caviar at the Borchardt every night and chilled out with a Who’s Who of Hollywood at Soho House into the wee hours of the morning.

We walked the red carpet at the Berlin International Film Festival and our film was awarded the Golden Bear. I picked up a Silver Bear for Best Actor. Look, Father, I put my heart and soul into that role, and it thrilled me to bits to receive a gong for all my hard work. Let me tell you, we all celebrated hard that night at the after-party.

I’d made it, Father. I was an actor of critical acclaim. And it was just the beginning, Father. The beginning of the end.

Next morning, I woke up in this motel room, naked and exhausted. It took me a while to get my bearings, but then I heard Mildred singing up a storm in the shower. I was like a bear with a sore head, so I phoned Reception for some pain relief and a paper.

Two minutes later, there was a knock. I staggered to the door and opened it, and this room-service chap gave me a wink and a smirk as he bid me good morning and passed me a tray with aspirin, chilled water and a rolled-up newspaper on it.

I tipped and thanked him and gingerly carried the tray back to the dishevelled bed. I popped two tablets and washed them down with the chilled water. As I rubbed my temples, I unfolded the newspaper. On the front page of the broadsheet was a large grainy photo of some naked dude with a hairy arse who bore a resemblance to someone I knew, but my foggy brain couldn’t quite remember. As my eyes focused, I saw to the dude’s left a woman standing next to a huge black vase. The paparazzi had snapped her nude and full-frontal, except for a bit of creative, photo-shopped fogging that barely covered her privates. Again, a flush of familiarity tapped at my murky mind. I cast my eyes up to the headline and read: HAIRY HUNK HUMPS HOLLYWOOD HONEY.

Lucky him, I thought.

The bathroom door creaked open, and I turned to wish Mildred a good morning and show her this poor sucker the papers had snapped, when who should walk out of the bathroom but Tina Trubble. Naked, except for a towel wrapped around her head. Naked, standing next to a huge black vase.

‘Good morning, my big bear,’ she said. ‘Sleep well?’

Holy shit, I thought.

‘You were an animal last night.’

‘Holy shit,’ I said.

Now, Father, I know you don’t want to hear all the gushy stuff, that you’d prefer me to stick to the bare facts, but it’s important for me to bare my soul if I am to receive absolution.

I loved her, Father. Plain and simple. And Tina was nuts about me. This wasn’t some cheap fling. We bared our souls and our bodies, Father, and became inseparable. I’ll admit it took a little while to get used to all the attention, the gossip columns and the paparazzi, but we soon set up a love nest in a penthouse off Hyde Park, and I didn’t have a worry in the world. Except for Mildred. She refused my calls and shut me off from Bubba. The only contact I received was from her lawyer, who served me with a divorce petition.

For the next few months, I was one hot bear, Father, the most famous bear in the world. I appeared on Oprah and jumped up and down on the interviewee couch as I declared my love for Tina to the world. And as for product endorsements, well, they just poured in: honey, salmon, Teddy Bear biscuits, throw rugs, plus-size beds, porridge bowls, snoozing chairs. You name it, I plugged it. Hell, I even got my own underpants range that outsold Calvin Klein tenfold. I became number one ticket holder for the Chicago Bears, threw the season-opening pitch for the Chicago Cubs and teed off at Augusta with the Golden Bear, Jack Nicklaus. Tina and I even got choppered out to a remote tropical island and did a guest spot on Bear Grylls’ latest survival show. He was a great bloke, and we all got on like a forest on fire. And that’s not all, Father, for the elite of Hollywood producers and directors beat down my door to get me to star in their films. Tarantino begged me to do his neo-noir crime thriller, Reservoir Bears. Redford beseeched me to join him and Kristin Scott Thomas in a film called The Bear Whisperer—an epic romance set at the foot of the Montana Rockies amidst the turmoil of a scandalous love triangle. I even lunched with Spielberg and Harry Ford at Soho House, and while they wooed me about an upcoming politico-environmental thriller called Bear Force One, a waiter came up with a tray and placed not one but two Tequila Honey Bees on the table in front of me and said, ‘With compliments from the gentlemen at the bar.’ And I looked over to the bar, and, blow me down, there were Nicholson and DiCaprio, raising their glasses and mouthing ‘Cheers’.

I was at the Cannes Film Festival, working on my tan and hobnobbing on luxury ultra-yachts with Hollywood royalty, when I read the story Mildred had sold to Sows Weekly as an exclusive. Boy, Father, she sure gave me a right royal bollocking, and she didn’t spare Tina either. And that wasn’t all, for the article revealed Mildred was dating again and displayed photos of her and some Peruvian boar sharing a candlelit dinner at some swank restaurant. He looked a sickly, anaemic type, short and tubby and wearing this red bush hat and blue duffle coat, even in what had been a warmish late English spring. I didn’t catch his name, but I understand he’s some sort of arty type, living in inner London—in Notting Hill or Bayswater or Paddington or the likes—and filthy rich, living off the royalties from a series of books and films in which he’d collaborated with some writer called Bond.

I’ll admit I was a tad jealous for a while, but I soon learnt to grin and bear it. After all, I had my Tina.