Return of the big Mac

Ewan McGregor leans back in an ornate gilt armchair in the Dorchester unable to speak, his face contorted into a tableau of silent joy.

'Mmmm. Mmmm,' he manages after a few seconds. 'Oh my God, this tastes good. Doesn't it? Go on, you must try some,' he urges.

Oh, all right, Ewan. If you insist. And he does. We both dip into the remains of a gooey chocolate-mousse cake, a takeout from Nobu where he has just had lunch, and then the shared moment is interrupted - Ewan burps. Not loudly but even so. He covers his mouth apologetically and grins. 'Errr. Oh dear. I really have just had my lunch, haven't l?'

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