You will never be as cool as Tim Roth

You will never wear a leather codpiece and spout Shakespeare in a, eastern European castle next to Jorah Mormont.

You will never make Gary Oldman look stupid, nor intimidate him with your superior intellect and ability to reason.

You will never stab Richard Dreyfuss in the gut with a collapsible dagger, or be offered an opportunity to have sex with a cross dressing Danish tragedian.

You will never stand beside a stately John Hurt, both of you in full dandy drag complete with foppish powdered wigs, little satin knee pants and lacy ruffles, looking like a completely poncy git and still be considered the films Ultimate Badass, doing as you bloody well like and drowning in willing pussy. Or unwilling, as the case may be. You will never sneeringly screw Jessica Lange doggie style or drive Liam Neeson to his knees in defeat.

You will never play Vincent Van Gogh. And even if you do, you won't be able to meet the ferocious caliber of Roth's Van Gogh. Ragged and paint splattered, drunken and unshaven, teeth a horror of paint stains and rot. You will never surpass his simple awe at the beauty of nature, his solemn acceptance of life's horrors, nor his explosively violent, blood drenched, canvas ripping, glass shattering, atom bomb level destructive drunken rages. You will never bleed oil and absinthe and your face will never shine like a sunflower.

You will never star in four Quentin Tarantino films.

You will never lay on the floor of a warehouse, slowly bleeding to death from a gut shot, and still turn in a riveting performance. You will never entirely erase your heavy English accent and make yourself sound as though you were born and raised in Southern California. You will never have your pants unbuttoned by Harvey Keitel while he whispers sweet nothings into your bloody ear. You will never blow Michael Madsen away by emptying your magazine into his body. You will never try to watch The Lost Boys, mutherfucker. You will never be called Pumpkin by a girl named Honey Bunny who loves you with all her heart.

You will never play a scummy Russian-Jewish mafioso who fucks Moira Kelly, incinerates Edward Furlong and makes eating french fries look like an Olympic event. You will never not be on a boat, or wear a little bellhop uniform, or play Charles Starkweather, or hang out in the steaming jungle with John Malkovich and Iman, or have your kneecap shattered with a golf club, or call Jelly Roll Morton an asshole.

Look, just shut up about Planet of the Apes, okay? Everyone makes mistakes.