It's not easy to hate George Clooney but I've found a way.
See, it's not that his movies suck - actually, they're quite good. And I don't dislike him because he seems all full of himself - on the contrary, in interviews he comes across as a really nice guy. And I can't be critical of his appearance because he's as debonair and handsome as they come.
So it's none of that. In fact, the reasons I hate George Clooney are that his movies are quite good, he comes across as a really nice guy and he's as debonair and handsome as they come. Oh, and he has a house at Lake Como.
He's famous for it, in fact. You probably already knew that Mr Clooney enjoys spending his summers at his lakeside villa, entertaining similarly annoying movie stars in cloistered surrounds.
But you, like me, have probably comforted yourself with the knowledge that Lake Como isn't all that great. Sure, you've never been there but these European enclaves of the rich and famous never turn out to be as amazing as you'd expect.
Monaco, for example, is all right but there are plenty of places I'd prefer to have my multimillion-dollar penthouse. And anyone who's tried to lay out a towel on the "beach" in Nice would know that the city doesn't always live up to its name.
So Como, you think, is probably the same. A bunch of fancy houses, sure, but not the ultimate in waterside beauty.
And then you go there and find out that it is. There's old George, rubbing your face in even more of his awesomeness.
The train station is average, which is a good start. Coming in from Milan, you don't get to see much in the way of scenery before you've been plonked on the platform in the town of Como.
The lake's out there and it looks quite nice but the town itself? Meh.
Five minutes' walk later, though, things are starting to go awry.
You've entered Como's old town, which is annoyingly quaint, with shuttered windows and Juliet balconies overlooking great swathes of blue water.
There's a small ferry that runs up to Bellagio, a village - and Clooney's home - at the central point of the Y-shaped lake, so you decide to take a little pleasure cruise to see what all the fuss is about. But first, a pit stop at the local supermarket for rations: fresh panini straight from the oven, a handful of Sicilian olives, a few scoops of semi-dried tomatoes.
The sun beats down as you take a spot in the open front end of the ferry, cracking open the snacks as the boat chugs out of the harbour and into that wide expanse that Clooney must gaze over every morning. Damn. There really are few combinations in life better than sunshine, clear water and fresh Italian food.
First stop, Cernobbio, a lakeside village just north of Como. It's amazing. Perfect. Narrow cobbled lanes hemmed in by brightly painted houses. Gelati stores peddling their wares. Glimpses of sprawling villas that only Clooney and his ilk could afford. You wander around, absent-mindedly licking a gelato, marvelling at the sickening beauty of it all.
Back on the water and onwards north, this time to the smaller village of Moltrasio. On the way, the ferry is overtaken by another boat, one of those sleek wooden jobs you'd expect James Bond to leap out of, or into, or over. Except this one is piloted by an Italian man in sunglasses, standing suave and steady in the sun, one hand on the wheel, with his bikini-clad wife, or girlfriend, or mistress, reclining in the back.
You've got to be kidding.
Moltrasio is like Cernobbio, only, if it's possible, more jealousy inducing. Gianni Versace owned a villa here until he palmed it off for $52 million. As you do. It's more winding cobbled streets, manicured lawns and quaint little restaurants.
Down by the lake there's a lido, a fake-sand beach that must have stood unchanged since Loren and the Rossellinis were presumably strutting around here in the '50s. It's nothing fancy, just a whitewashed hut selling cold drinks and a wide reach of sand looking across the bobbing boats to the villas on the other side of the lake.
Infuriatingly slim, tanned Italians recline on the sun lounges, while guys in tight trunks leap off the diving board into the cool embrace of the lake. You feel like you've somehow woken up in a Giorgio Armani ad campaign, only this one featuring a pasty foreigner standing awkwardly in the background.
That's it. Enough. You can't even make it up to Bellagio to stare at Clooney's little abode because it's all just too unfair. Home time. Back to Milan.
So, well done, George, you really do live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Forgive me if I hate you just that little bit more for it.