Everybody who knows me well… knows that I have lusted shamefully after David Duchovny since the X Files first aired on Australian TV in 1993. I think even my mother knew, which was kind of embarrassing, for a 15 year old.

I was never the kind of fan who squealed and fainted, screamed and flapped. I always liked to think that I was a bit more cool about it, “Oh you mean that X Files guy? Yeah, he’s not bad…”

But believe me, I watched that show RELIGIOUSLY. Every Wednesday night. In the dark. He was the sexiest, yummiest, mysterious, electrifying, and most exhilarating guy to watch on TV. I was hooked, bad.

Once or twice, I’ve tried to be a hardcore fan. I tried to watch a few of his earlier movies. I tried to read some books. I tried to delve into the strange world of fan sites. But I couldn’t do it. Fan sites are so wrong, on so many different levels. I was never a real fan.

But 13 years on. I confess that the fire still burns within. Yes indeed.

Do I admire him as an actor? Not really.
Do I adore his deadpan humour? Nah.
What about his intelligent, dry wit? Nope.
Is this all quite sad, completely superficial and reeking with 15 year old shallowness? Absolutely!

I lick my lips with delicious anticipation of his new TV series, Californication. It’s not great tv, but hey, me and the eye candy go way back.

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