Dear Jackie Chan, what are your thoughts on the arctic?

So, the other day I wrote this letter to Jackie Chan, right. As you do.

Slow day at work and bored writers are a dangerous breed, so I wrote a letter to my pal Jackie, just to liven things up a bit, Of course, he's not strictly my pal but I feel sure that once he's grasped the enormity of my life-plan he will be poking me on facebook all over the place. Actually, I'm sure Jackie has his own personalised 'judo chop' kind of button. Nothing as low-adrenaline as a humble 'poke' for him I suspect.

"You've just been round-housed by Jackie. Would you like to round-house him back?" "Stephen Segal 'likes this'".

Anyway, a pal had just been to see the new Karate Kid film. So Jackie Chan was the first celeb that spring into my tiny, vodka addled mind. And I think this will be the start of a string of letters I will be sending to celebrities. You see, much like Baldrick in a tight spot, I have a cunning plan. Well perhaps not so cunning to be honest, more deranged and possibly life-threatening, but hey ho. In for a penny and all that.

You see, I got drunk again. I always have all my best ideas when I'm drunk. Trouble is, I also have all my worst ideas when I'm drunk too. It's a bit of a balancing act if I'm honest. After another string of weddings where I appeared to be the only competing member in the 'who's the drunkest girl in the room?' race, I decided that I wanted to do something a bit more worthy and potentially 'impressive' with my time. Or, something that would at least involve putting my glass down long enough to look about me a bit and perhaps appreciate life's awesome majesty.

Life's awesome majesty? What the tits am I talking about? Basically, I just got drunk and brave and signed up to something incredibly stupid which I am far too unfit to do and I should have known better and now I'm in trouble and I'm going to have to buy trainers.

Yes, TRAINERS.


And actually, the trainers are the least of my worries. I will need trainers, boots, silk linings, outer arctic boots, special gortex, double lined snow coat thingy, goggles, 4-season double-hard-bastard sleeping bag with extra aspestos (or something), an industrial heater, 8 huskies, a state-of-the-art sled and probably bloody crampons, an ice axe and a cyanide pill in case things get "I may be some time" kind of serious. You see, I am off the the arctic.

CORRECT.

The frozen, snowy, inhospitable kind of arctic. The kind that chews people up and spits them back in convenient ice cube format.

Oh dear god, what HAVE I done this time?

To be honest, through my cosy gin haze, I was imagining Bear Grylls, Ben Fogle, James Cracknell and I all huddled together in a small tent sipping hot chocolate and admiring the view (whilst they say things like 'it is essential for us all to be naked and to huddle together to share our body heat' and 'my, it can be lonely in the arctic. Sometimes all I yearn for is the touch of a woman'.)

Ahem... sorry. And back in the room.

In reality of course, what I'm actually going to get is 8 angry huskies who don't speak English, cleaning up frozen dog poo at 4 in the morning, sub-zero temperatures and a training regime that would make even the aforementioned Mr Fogle grumpy.

Right then. So the logical thing to do is to write to Jackie Chan immediately. I thought that if I got him onboard with my video diary of the whole gruesome experience, he might bring in some much needed funds. You see, the other thing about the arctic is that it is bloody expensive what with all the not freezing to death that has to go on. Helpfully, I have signed up to this cheerful snowy death-sled in aid of the Countryside Alliance Foundation, so I will hopefully be able to raise most of the funds charitably. I'm not certain what Jackie Chan's thoughts are on the British countryside, but I'm sure he enjoys a good village fete and a jam sponge as much as the next man.

If you want to find out more about the conservation and community projects the Foundation supports, take a look at www.countryside-alliance-foundation.org.uk - I'm sure Jackie Chan will be. Especially after he receives this lovely letter from yours truly:

Dear Jackie Chan

Hi-ya! Firstly, may I just say that I very much admire your work, kung fu manoeuvres and general kicking of the ass. Secondly, I have an opportunity for you. Something that I think you will consider very attractive given your love of action and your low centre of gravity.

I was wondering whether you would like to be in my action film about huskies? It is an innovative, privately funded venture and is in desperate need of a big name (such as yourself) to make it into a blockbuster and raise much needed funds for the Countryside Alliance Foundation.

The film would involve:

You in the arctic
You doing a small interview with Bear Grylls
You overpowering Bear and a giant arctic skunk with your cunning Kung Foo moves
You escaping with a team of huskies and an intrepid female dog sledder (myself)

I will not be able to pay you but because I know you like dogs and spinny kick things, I thought you would consider this a labour of love. With regards to your spinny kick things, please don't worry about all the ice in the arctic. We will get you some of those bicycle pedal grippy things like what that bloke has got in the Transporter (or was it Transporter 2?). There will also be no nudity, because of the cold weather n'that and the ever-present threat of fast-forming icicles.

I very much hope you will get into bed with me on this. But if you don't fancy that, you could just do the film instead. It really is a chance in a million and I htink would enable your audience to see you in an entirely new light.

Lots of Love

P from Yorkshire
XOXOX

What do you think? Think he'll go for it? Don't see why not. But, erm... just in case, here's the link if any of you nice people out there want to sponsor me.



Go on! It's gonna be dead cold and I'm really quite scared of Eskimos. Once had a dream about one with jaundice who lived in my fridge and waved big smelly fish at me whilst babbling incoherently. Nasty business, it really was. Not touched tuna since.

Bmycharity.com fundraising page: Sarah Robinson - Arctic Dog Sled 2011 - The Countryside Alliance Foundation

Bmycharity.com fundraising page: Sarah Robinson - Arctic Dog Sled 2011 - The Countryside Alliance Foundation

And will you be bringing anyone?

The topic for today children is… weddings. Or, should I say, bloody weddings. I attend a lot of these things. A LOT of them. Not my own of course. Moons will have to align, seas freeze over and prehistoric beasts roam the land sporting novelty ‘see you Jimmy’ hats before that particular coup comes off. Nope, ‘tis the up-coming nuptials of a very talented arty pal of mine. You know who you are. So, the topic up for discussion is:



The ‘plus one’ wedding phenomenon and how to approach it

The dreaded ‘Plus One’ conundrum. A relatively modern phenomenon and yet another nasty nail bomb in the minefield of social etiquette that is the British wedding. Because, be warned, weddings are no longer about flowers and champagne, romance and happy people. Oh no, no, no. For single ladies (and perhaps men) of a 30-something persuasion, weddings are a perilous and bloody battlefield. Stick on your tit-tape, squeeze your hobbit-bunions into those Jimmy Choos (actually, I’ve never owned a pair of designer shoes in my life) and take no prisoners, cos weddings are a SERIOUS business. They require no less than a full-blown military strategy if you’re to get through alive. So, this is the question. When given the plus one option, do you:

1) Immediately contact the most handsome man of your acquaintance and persuade him to attend with the promise of champagne and drunk bridesmaids.

2) Politely decline a plus one on the grounds that you are a strong independent lady, secure in herself and her ability to attract a handsome (or just breathing) boyfriend, should she wish to.

3) Pay a male model.

4) Resign yourself and ask an old friend. At least you’ll have someone to chat to and hold your drink while you go to the loo.

Hmmm…

The handsome man option, while appealing, could backfire horribly. You arrive with handsome mystery man. You laugh and chat as champagne flutes tinkle. Girls cast jealous looks in your direction. Then 5 hours later he’s gyrating around the place with his tie round his head and copping off with someone’s 18-year-old cousin. Rubbish.

2nd option. The emancipated woman route. This is even more perilous. As a single lady you pose your host all sorts of seating problems and stand a very high chance of being sat between a fat, morose divorcee and an angry lesbian (this has REALLY happened to me). The lesbian was actually lots of fun but that in itself is a little unsettling as you don’t want to be branded ‘the lesbian couple’ – well not if you’re not actually a lesbian anyway, be very inconvenient.

So… a male model? This might actually be fun. He would be polite and professional and you could mould him into any old fantasy you wanted. “Hi, yes, haven’t seen you in a while, have you met my boyfriend Alonso? He’s a base-jumping, pilot, neurosurgeon from Tuscany. He loves puppies. And me!”. Ah… it would be nice. But I can’t be trusted. I’m sure to make up something outrageous and no one will buy it for a second.

So, invite an old friend. It’s a nice safe option but it does sort of put you in the charity bin section of the supermarket. Aw, look, her best chum came along to keep her company. That’s nice. Bless her. Poor thing. NOPE. Absolutely not an option. Besides, if I invite A he’ll just ogle everyone’s wife/sister/mother and upset an arty type with his countryside views.

So what to do? Well, in the end I’ve gone for option 2. I’ll just have to run the risk of the lesbian/kiddies table (Would you like a crayon dear?). After all, how bad can it be? If anyone asks me why I’m flying solo I’ll just lie and say Alfonso’s at home saving a group of under-privileged street children from a rare form of brain cancer. Or something.

I would like to say at this point though, I am very happy I have been invited to this wedding. I don’t wish to come across as ungrateful here. Although, thinking about it, the bride to be would be blissfully unaware of the problems that the ‘plus one’ scenario presents. She is, after all, the type of girl who inspires this sort of response from the male of the species:



FYI: Dylan Lisle and Patsy McArthur - 1st July to 2nd August 2010 at the very brilliant Union Gallery, Edinburgh.

She is a smooth, classical muse-goddess. I am a lumpy alcoholic with comedy hair. These are the facts and Alonso will just have to take me as I am I’m afraid.

Big hairy birds and celebrity encounters

Nobody panic, but I have recently been delving into my sub-conscious. A terrifying experience for the best of us I’m sure but, apparently, according to (internet-based though I’m sure reputable) experts, I really am in a lot of trouble.

Who knew?

You see, I have been making detailed notes of my dreams. And my dreams have always been a bit on the worrying side if I’m honest. Maybe it’s my love of cheese, maybe it’s just because I’m a few steps away from clinical oddness, but whilst others run through sand, or fly, or lose their teeth, I’m busy perching on a moths wing whilst playing the harmonica and wearing rubber underpants. It’s not right, it really isn’t.

So recently I sought some confirmation from the experts. I just wanted to clarify exactly how ‘left field’ I am here. Not surprisingly the experts told me, in no uncertain terms, that it’s not right. Definitely not. Wrong, wrong, wrong – seek help immediately. However, there are always two ways to look at something I find.

The website I consult pronounces that:

You are entering a mysterious and fascinating world of dreams where the rules of reality do not apply.

Hmm, well they’ve got that bit right. If reality came a-calling in any of my bedtime musings, he’d be checking into the nearest secure unit and asking for his money back pronto. My dreams, like Aunt Sally’s impossible complexion (you will understand this reference later), don’t appear to be (even loosely) based on reality most of the time. Having said that, my reality very often doesn’t appear to be based on reality either. Let me expand on this…

Just last Friday, I found myself in a very odd, dream-like (and possibly morally wrong) situation. I used (and I’m not even that ashamed of this) my friend’s baby to make friends with a movie star. As you do. You know, perfectly normal. You’re down the boozer with your pal’s baby (I mean, not JUST your pal’s baby – your pal was there too obviously) and Johnny Lee Miller comes in and tries to talk to you. Of course he does. Nothing weird about that at all. Happens all the time. So far, so weird.

So you go into ‘meet celebrity’ default mode – which is, as everybody knows, freeze and grin like simpleton. He gives up and retreats to the bar. He is out with pals and you don’t want him to cotton onto the fact that you love him and now intend to stalk him for the rest of your natural life. So you play it cool. You start talking to the baby in a rather large, weird voice in the hopes of attracting attention. It doesn’t work. The baby looks at you like you’re a cock. Largely because you are a cock.

On leaving the pub you make one last ditch effort to engage said celebrity in witty banter. You force your pal, against her wishes, to wheel her baby in front of Johnny like some prize turnip in a barrow. And then…

YES.

Gullible, delicious Johnny takes the bait.
“Hello” he says, “what’s her name?”
I blurt out my own name then swallow it quickly in an explosive cough. He’s talking about the baby you twat… obviously.
“Louisa”, mutters my friend, looking at the floor and making a strange monotone laugh that signals to the world that she has recognized Johnny M.
“She’s beautiful”, he says.
“So are you”, I blurt.

NO.
Tell me.
I did NOT just say that out loud.
Fucking tourettes.

Actually, thank the Lord, I didn’t. This time it stayed in my head. But it’s not always the case, trust me. So, I return to work and spend all afternoon devising fantasy situations in my mind whereby Johnny Lee Miller takes me into his confidence (and perhaps his arms) and we become the best of friends and I get invited to his most recent ‘shoot’ in L.A. Then he asks me to write a script for him and introduces me to his more talented, better looking cousin/brother/best friend and we all go on double dates together and throw darts at a large blow-up doll of Angelina Jolie and drink cocktails in the sunshine forever and ever and ever… etc. You get the picture.

So imagine my surprise when I return to the pub and… there he still is! And then…

“Hello again”

HELLO.

AGAIN.

That’s what he said. Like an old friend. Like an old chum from way back – I look behind me, to the left, to the right, but yes, seemingly, bewilderingly, HE IS TALKING TO ME. Too much. Can’t cope. Brain freeze. Some dribble comes out. I contemplate fainting and, when I come round, he is gone. Just like that.

And this is where it all starts to get a bit dream-weird. No moths or harmonicas and, thank god, no rubber pants, but still quite weird. I am still standing outside when Johnny Lee Miller’s drunk ad exec friend stands on a very cute puppy and incites the wrath of the crowd. Now there’s an ‘in’ if ever I saw one. Bit of drunken puppy banter and, just like that, we’re back in the game.

I am talking to fat friend (fat friend’s ALWAYS love me) about his history of violence against baby animals when… who is this other guy? Not sure. I don’t recognize him but everyone else seems a bit excited. Unfortunately, by the time I realise it is actor of note Sean Pertwee, I have smoked most of his fags and made him buy me lager.

Oops.

So, I find myself in the unlikely position of being out on the piss with a short, mintos ad exec of uncertain origin, Johnny Lee Miller (who has now gone off in search of a curry) and Sean Pertwee (Worzel Gummidge and Doctor Who’s Dog Soldier son, for the uninitiated). This is weird. Definitely weirder than that dream I had about Barbara Cartland being my Mum.

After this, it all gets even hazier. I am understandably a little keyed up and by this time have drunk my own body-weight in red wine. So when fat friend suggests I give him my number I down half a glass of wine in one go and run off into the night to question whether it was all just an unlikely ‘Alice down the rabbit hole’ moment.

Next day, still unsure, I decide to consult my online dream oracle. The previous night, in no particular order, I dream of:

A boat
Giant eyelashes falling from the sky
Unidentified road kill
A moth (always moths, seriously…?)
A wooden classroom
A talking bird with human hair

This is what the oracle said:

You are entering a mysterious and fascinating world of dreams where the rules of reality do not apply.

Yeah, yeah, we know that bit. Just get on with it …

Boat
To dream that you are in or see a boat, signifies your ability to cope with and express your emotions. Alternatively, you may be ready to confront your unconscious and unknown aspects of yourself.

Yeah, unknown aspects such as my new life as a yacht-lounging celebrity best friend/wife/mistress! Hoo bloody rar! Bring it on.

Eyelashes

To dream that all your eyelashes fall off, suggests that you are having difficulties expressing yourself. It may also mean a loss in your feminine power.

So presumably, to see massive big eyelashes everywhere means precisely the opposite - an abundance of feminine power, sufficient to seduce Johnny Miller I’ll warrant.

Road kill (yes, there really was a listing for road kill)

To dream that an animal is about to become road kill, indicates loss of control in some aspect of your life. Consider the type of animal that is hit for clues as to what aspect of your life is out of control.

Loss of control!!! Very much liking the sound of that in the context of Johnny M. Although, admittedly the road kill image is a bit of a passion killer. I will assume it signifies the death of my reserve and the wild unleashing of a grand amour as I gallop naked on a stallion through the sea… or, urr, something.

Moth
To see a moth in your dream, indicates that some unseen irritation may not surface until it is too late. It is important to pay attention to the minor details and not to overlook certain things. Alternatively, the moth symbolizes your weaknesses, character flaws or fragility.

I’m just going to ignore this one if it’s alright with you. Doesn’t seem relevant. I never liked moths anyway.

Classroom
To dream that you are in a classroom, indicates that you are learning an important life lesson. Alternatively, it symbolizes personal growth. You are learning something about yourself.

Yip, learning that my new husband should be Johnny Lee Miller.

Hair
To see hair in your dream, signifies sexual virility, seduction, sensuality, vanity, and health.

Result!

Bird
To see deformed or odd birds in your dream,indicates that you have a unique outlook and perspective on romance and love.

Unique, special, artistic. One might even say that I am the type of girl that would appeal to an artiste. An actor, say?

Then, for good measure I thought I’d check my horoscope, just to see, and guess what???

Your recent achievement has made you a celebrity in your circle. Enjoy the praise! Overview You need to try something new today -- it could be anything from a new restaurant to a new way of looking at your career. It may also be a good time for you to move forward with a romance.

Well I don’t know about you, but it’s all blindingly obvious to me. I need to move forward in a celebrity romance with Johnny Lee Miller and invest in some heavy duty mothballs. I KNEW my time as a sun-drenched celebrity would come. KNEW IT.

Just better hope Angelina’s hung up her Lara Croft gun-holster suspender belt. They remain very close unfortunately… so my new friends tell me. But I reckon I could take her in an arm wrestle. After all, I’ve got a life-size, hairy, talking bird on my side.

Yip, sometimes I scare MYSELF.

Whoops! I've got a scallop in my pants

Now, I don’t know whether you’ve caught this on the Telly box yet, but following the trend for dangerously over-produced, sun-drenched cookery programmes, the BBC has recently seen it necessary to air yet another ‘sexy’ food show hosted by the (allegedly) voluptuous beauty, Sophie Dahl.

There are a lot of things wrong with this. A lot… of things…

Call me a cynical old piece of overdone venison, but can anyone actually tell me what the connection between posh nosh and graveyards is? No? As far as I know the two have never been particularly comfortable bedfellows, largely on account of the people in graveyards being, well, dead.

As Sophie gamely licks cream off her fingers all smug and back-lit and flashing her oyster-sized engagement ring all over the place, the scene cuts to various ‘mood pieces’. Either Sophie reciting a poem in wistful recline or, in a rather bizarre twist, talking about the ‘eternal romance’ of graveyards. Now slap me in the eye with a chilli scallop if I’m wrong here, but do people really want to think about their nearest and dearest maggoting away in their coffins as they tuck into their shepherds pie? NO would be my guess.

Graveyards (romantic or not) are no place for a quick sandwich. The antithesis is too great, the juxtaposition of the monster-munch-guzzle living and dried out hollow-socket dead is unsettling. No. I don’t like it. It is incorrect. Whichever way you spin it, food and dead folk don’t mix. Well, not unless you’ve got some pretty deep psychological problems anyway.

And I’ll tell you what else forms a particularly incorrect and alarming union. Fish and your underwear, that’s what. It’s a well known fact. NEVER mix seafood and your undies, it’s just a bad idea and conjures up all sorts of unpleasant associations. A point which the producer of Sophie’s show has spectacularly missed it seems.

As she chops up a chilli with a rather sinister commentary about an ex boyfriend’s penis (no, I’m NOT making this up – chilli being sliced - followed by phallus reference), we cut to a gratuitous shot of what appears to be Sophie’s pants hanging on the line. OH – FOR – GOD’S – SAKE – WOMAN. Do you really need to be quite so literal about all this? WHY would I want to see a shot of your pants as I’m trying to get in the mood for marinated shell fish? NO. I DRAW THE LINE SOPHIE, I really do. You are making me feel nauseous – not usually the aim of a cookery programme, surely?

The irony was complete when Sophie (a bit too flushed from the success of her mash potato) proudly garnishes her pies with some sprigs of rosemary. One, she explains, is garnished with a V for…

…vacuous? My flatmate suggests.

Nope. It turns out that too much anthropomorphism in her formative years (I blame Roald) has turned Sophie into a VEGE BLOODY TARIAN.

What? She’s been cooking meat and fish for the entire show, but doesn’t actually eat it! Wonder what Fantastic Mr Fox would have to say about that? Not chuffing much I’ll warrant.

Lewis Caroll's fat ankles and other thusings

Sorry, sorry, sorry, blog audience. Blaudience if you like. I have been away too long. So much has happened over Christmas and the New Year that I really don’t know where to start. Much like Cheryl Cole with the Times crossword methinks. But I’ll get to her (or rather her libido-ridden estranged husband) later. Ignore the nun on the phone for now as well. She’s a cautionary tale. All will become clear. Or clear er anyway.

I recently went to see the amazing Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland at the cinema and it got me to a’ thinking or a’ ‘thusing’ (thinking and musing) about Lewis Caroll’s great legacy to all humankind. No, not opium induced visions and an unhealthy preoccupation with little girls’ under-bloomers, but the portmanteau. You know the sort of thing – a humorous and pleasing fusion of words to create an entirely new splendiferous, frabtious, beamish marble of a word. All plosive and shiny and descriptive.

So… you take two words. Let’s say, well, ‘word’ and… ‘shit’. And you get…wit? Hmmm. But no, hang on, that can’t be right. Try another one. Something closer to home perhaps. What about ‘calf’ and ‘ankle’? This gives you the very pleasing ‘cankle’, to describe those granny spill-over ankles famously sported by the elderly, the pregnant, those of the elephant genus and, very regrettably, me.

I’m not of course suggesting that Lewis Carroll had fat ankles, although I think all the best people do. I’m simply saying that he was a man that knew a good word when he saw one. And if he didn’t, then fugger it, he just created his own. Fabulous! Frabulumous! Wondrill! Like your style Lew. I profeartily approve.

However, I’m not sure whether Lewis Carroll would have been so proud of his legacy if he’d seen some of the crass tabloid inferences that it has spawned of late. I’m talking of course about ‘sexting’ and all the faux moral outrage that seems to accompany it. People are such hypocrites about these things.

Vernon Kaye, Ashley Cole, Tiger Woods and the rest of the penis overruled telephonic idiots out there all pound away furiously on their mobile phones with their disloyal digits, and we’re all thrown into raptures of disapproval. HOW COULD HE? What a RAT!!! CHEAT, CHEAT, DIRTY CHEAT we cry.

Hang on a minute though. And I refer chiefly to the case of the hapless Vernon here (as the others clearly did not restrict their ardor to a smutty text or two), what has he ACTUALLY done? Is cyber-sex now akin to the real thing? If he’s sent some ill-advised ‘sexts’ to some pole-lubed slapper in Essex, is it really the same thing as getting down and dirty in person?

I put this scruples question to the floor at a recent dinner party and the response was rather surprising. Women (I think) are known for their more emotional take on life. But the consensus at dinner on Tuesday was reasonably unanimous. Flirting via a text or email (even if you are married/in a relationship/shagging the gardener) is absolutely A OK. It doesn’t count. It’s sexual monopoly. Not real life. It’s just a game.

Hmmm, curiouser and curiouser.

I doubt old Tess Dailey would agree with us here. Surely your husband sending smutty messages to some perma-tan silicon tart (especially when you have borne him children) is quite offensive and more than a little worrying. However, the fact remains that he hasn’t actually DONE anything and probably had no intention of doing so. Men are simple creatures when it comes to lusty matters I find, and I’m sure he just saw it as a bit of harmless titillation to make his day a bit more interesting.

Thankfully this sort of thing is not something I’ve ever had to put to the test. As with most of these modern-day portmanteaus (smirting – smoking and flirting, jazzercise - a particularly gruesome combination of jazz and exercise), I am utterly rubbish at all of them. Well, that’s not strictly true, I’m very good at eating brunch and I’m pretty adept at the chortle/snortle (chuckle and unattractive snort). Sexy – oh yes.

Speaking of which, when asked some time ago in a rather furtive text what I was wearing, I managed to spectacularly miss the point and replied ‘Tracksuit bottoms and a jumper, why’? I imagined he was about to take me on some unspecified activity which involved a certain dress code and was asking a practical question. He was imagining something quite different. Tatty tracksuit bottoms weren’t quite what he was looking for at that point. Oh well, you live and learn. Girls like me just aren’t cut out for that sort of chat. I may as well accept it. Even if I’d responded with ‘suspenders, rubber thigh boots and spurs, why?’ it would have just come across as weird and creepy and/or unhinged. I just can't seem to get it quite right.

Another excellent example of the ‘sext’ gone awry is when my friend’s mother bought herself a new mobile phone. As with all ladies of a certain age, she wasn’t all that proficient at text messages but she thought she’d send her son a little tester.

“Hello there! Love Nun XX”

My friend, not recognising the number and taking the typo to be a kinky alter-ego of some sort, texted back with… wait for it… this is really bad…

“Hi Nun! Fancy a fuck? XX”

Oh… holy… god… no.

To your OWN Mother!!! Bloody big double oops. I’m not sure how the conversation progressed from there but I assume ‘Mum’ managed to set him straight pretty quickly. He was probably a bit more cautious with his casual ‘sexting’ from that point on though.

But, and this is the main question, is ‘sexting’ really cheating though? Should it be met with the same moral outrage? My take is no, of course it shouldn’t. Everyone flirts via text. It’s hardly the same thing as booking into a motel for an hour is it? A little cheeky text never did anyone any harm. I bet Mr Carroll would have been a master at them, had he had access to a Nokia.

“Wanna see my slithy tove darlin’?”

No ta Lewis, thanks all the same. I’m practicing my ‘smirting’ in front of the bathroom mirror tonight whilst reciting The Jabberwocky backwards.

How to make a complete dog's dinner of a job interview

Lately it struck me that, in these ever-unstable financial times, many people out there may be going through the unavoidably false and grizzly process of job interviews. Provided you actually manage to get that far of course. These days it’s really not as simple as you might think to even get to the interview stage. Butcher, Baker or Candlestick bloody maker, you had better be one hell of an over-qualified neuro-surgeon with an aptitude for the dramatic arts, accountancy skills and a degree in quantum physics if you wish to get anywhere close. Take this impressive Rhodesian Ridgeback dog for example, he has a nationally recognized qualification in childcare. But can he get a job? Can he walkies as like. One little mistake and... well, it's enough to make you sick, it really is.

I was recently asked, whilst applying for some casual work in a bookshop incidentally, whether I had any publishing experience. Publishing experience? What the bloody hell has that got to do with anything? I’ve got an honours degree in English Literature. Will that do? Apparently not it seems.

My resentment was fuelled further by the fact that I was asked this question by a predictably spotty youth whose expression (and livid chin area) I recognized all too well. He was a Eng Lit undergraduate for sure. If I’d looked I would have, without a doubt, found a Norton Anthology behind the counter as well as a well-thumbed, though probably little understood, copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses. I mean, come on, does anyone REALLY understand that book? Even if you buy all the York notes in the world and quiz every Professor and Don in the country, it’s still an utterly perplexing read. Not so for my spotty friend though, OH NO. His beady bespectacled eyes dared me to take him on with the irritating assurance that only comes with youth and a few lectures on T.S. Eliot. Twat. He was just waiting for me to ask a question about ‘post-modern narrative experimentation’. You could tell.

I may not have indulged him with the latter but I certainly gave him a bloody good stream- of-consciousness rant our Jim J would have been proud of.

Publishing experience to sell a few books in your poxy mass-market shop where the only room for self expression is when you spill your Starbucks coffee on your “Big Massive Popular Books Company” t-shirt and the spill looks like a map of Britain or is that a woman with a hat holding a small child on her knee I don’t think so thanks all the same small children why is that one staring at me shit I have biro on my face again I hate it when that happens shit someone I know has just walked past as my CV is getting binned by an incompetent minor duck good not suspicious how to deal with this little home counties twerp flirt maybe God no awful idea I’ve told you before inner self you are really shit at flirting it just scares people thank you anyway John is it yes incidentally I didn’t want to fucking publish a book just to flog a few of them to passers by and enjoy regular fag breaks and an excuse to get out the house and get cheap paperbacks yes my attitude is quite wrong John sorry you’re right TWAT I shall immediately go home and study some high-brow literary theory it’s probably the very least I need to do to work in your very nice big shiny American shop lady pram stuck embarrassingly in door out drop bag shit catch coat bye bye then yes bye goodbye.

Stick that in your Joycean pipe John you pretentious little tit. I showed him alright. Publishing experience? Fuck off.

Hmm, slightly off topic. Sorry. John obviously got to me more that I thought there. Where were we? The job interview, yes. It’s a tricky one and by no means as easy as you might think. Especially if you take my recent experiences as examples. I thought I’d hit an all-time low when in the middle of a particularly stifled exchange with a creative director, a dog casually sauntered into the room and vomited up half a cheese sandwich and a baby’s finger on the carpet. OK, I’m lying about the finger, but the enormous beast (Rhodesian Ridgeback I believe) had definitely been imbibing something of a cheese-based nature. It didn’t really help to strike the right tone in an already flagging interview and I don’t mind telling you that it put me right off my stride (and my lunch).

Surprisingly this was not to be the worst experience though. Just the other day I was ushered into an interview at an agency. Instead of passing calmly through to a boardroom or office, I stepped neatly from the civilized world of reception into what appeared to be the bowels of hell. At least the bowels of hell if the devil was in advertising (which I suppose he is in a way). People shouting and throwing muffins at each other. Yes, muffins. People huddled over flimsy plastic tables and chairs, trying to plug in computers or make notes on over-sized sketchpads. I’m sure I actually saw someone lying dead under a table, unnoticed by the ad-crazed throng.

“We’re a little hectic at the moment” explained my guide. “Space is at a bit of a premium, as you can see.”

Hmm… space and any EU directive on humane working conditions I thought to myself. Even cattle get more room than this on the way to the abattoir. Fortunately, we stepped out of the mayhem into… a broom cupboard. Oh well, better than out there where there was a very real chance of getting trampled to death or cannibalized I thought.

A very strange Monty Python sketch then ensued as more and more people, a seemingly endless stream, followed us into our cupboard. How many nuns can you fit in a telephone box? Search me. But I do know how many advertising creatives you can fit in a cupboard. The answer is 7. People jossled for position at the light box behind me as I tried to talk with authority about my portfolio. Then…

…the fire alarm went off. I mean, COME ON, you’ve got to be kidding me? Everybody out! So our happy little band all trooped out of the cupboard one by one, much to the amazement of the people still hurling muffins about outside. It was like that magic trick with the handkerchief up the magician’s sleeve where the hanky just keeps on coming.

So, once outside I thought I would take the opportunity to stave off the residual claustrophobia with a little chat. Oh dear. Seeing as the interview already seemed doomed I thought I’d rescue it with a small anecdote of mine. What did I choose? Yes, you guessed it, the dog vomit story. I even included the bit about the baby’s finger. I mean, what in god’s name possessed me????

So, after death by fire was averted, I and my, by now quite mystified, audience troop back into Dante’s Inferno and back into our cupboard. Then (and you couldn’t write this – spot the obvious irony) the fire alarm went off… again.

“Just ignore it this time” shouted one of my interviewers confidently. So, with the constant threat of an untimely, firey end hanging over us, I proceeded to shout through the rest of my presentation. I had of course already lost my audience at the dog vomit stage so it was all rather pointless by that point.

At the door as I was leaving, the head of copy leant into me conspiratorially and asked,

“Was there really a baby’s finger in its vomit?”
“No, no there wasn’t really.”
Look of utter confusion from him. Look of utter disbelief from me.
The sound of me running away as fast as I possibly could.

It was so weird it was positively post-modern.