Day 92: I Review My Interview Technique

I don't think I'm very good at this. If you wanted someone who does what I do, you might look at my CV and ask me to 'pop in' for an interview. If you read my CV, you might not assume that I am a total fuckwit. Hell, you might even expect me to know what I'm talking about and be interesting and articulate and that.


But no. I had another interview today, and seem to have lost my mind.

Why did you leave advertising?

Correct answer: I decided, after eleven years in the industry, that I would benefit from a sabbatical and instead invested my time working tirelessly for Charidee.

My answer: "Well, to be honest, I was knackered."

Where do you see yourself in five years time?

Correct answer: Continuing to build brands and differentiate parity products with my involvement in multi-award winning advertising campaigns that transform the fortunes of my clients.

Real answer: Being near fields, writing a book, with occasional visits from friends and family and, with any luck, a nice warm Gentleman Caller to play Scrabble and Hide the Sausage with.

My answer (to managing director of advertising agency): Well, I don't want to be the managing director of an advertising agency. I would like to enjoy what I do and be interested and happy.

Would you like a drink?

Correct answer: Yes please, black coffee, hold the sugar, cream and biscuits.

My answer: " Yes please, some water. I'm terribly hot (wiping sweat from brow). I've got a temperature, as it goes. Should probably be in bed. Have you got any Lemsip?"

What do you think of (insert name of universally reviled industry figure here)?

Correct answer: I have some admiration and personal loyalty for him, but have nothing but contempt for the way he behaved.

My answer: "I LOVE him. He was always very loyal to me, so I'm loyal to him. He's been very naughty though."

(Silence falls. Tumbleweed blows through Covent Garden. A distant gunshot is heard. The Worldwide Chief Executive talks, at length, about the importance of integrity. I look at my hands.)

So, how did you get your job at (insert name of  famous media brand here)?

Correct answer: It was great timing - I bumped into an old colleague and through him, met the marketing director who offered me the job, after which I had fifteen very enjoyable months.

My answer: "Oh, it was quite funny actually - I literally bumped into some old mates in the street ... an old client of mine was working there, which was funny ... met the marketing director ... yeah. It was good."

The interview lasted half an hour. I think this is called 'self-sabotage'. I reckon if I sell one of my kidneys I'll be OK for another couple of months.

I shall eat some soup and consider my options.

Day 92: I Wonder About A Haircut

This is a (poor) artist's impression of a very strange haircut that I often see on daytime chat shows. In essence, what you do is plaster your main hair to your head, then pull out individual strands of fringe, dip them in sunflower oil, and stick them to your forehead.

Do you have this hairstyle? Do you know anyone who does? If so, can you explain why anyone would want it? It looks jolly silly, let alone slightly grubby. The wearer invariably has a pasty complexion and clothes made of nylon. My own hair (fine to the point of near-transparency, curly in an irritating way that is not heavy curls or waves, but unruly semi-frizz), naturally qualifies me as a Hair Critic.

Coming Soon: What not to wear if you're on the porky side. Includes short sleeves, bare midriffs, leggings, backless tops and very tight jeans with vests.

Day 91: I Refute Accusations of Dishonesty

What's the MATTER with you people? I don't make this stuff up, you know. A reader writes to ask whether the hotel in Newcastle I wrote about a few days ago was made up in my brain. The answer is: no, it was not. Here - yet again (and last time it was the facial hair on the dioramas) - is some photographic evidence, proving that The Royal Station Hotel, Newcastle, could be a set for a UK-based TV adaptation of The Shining, with Shane Ritchie in the Jack Nicholson role.














The first floor landing. Please note the air of Evil hanging in the air, and the mismatched carpet and wallcoverings.

If you narrow your eyes and hold your breath, you will see blood pouring down this corridor. The white light at the end is probably a ghost.












My well-stocked minibar. The white blobs at the bottom are four miniature cartons of UHT milk.














I mean really. Could you have imagined that carpet?

Day 91: I Wonder What Has Happened to Clarks

I thought Clarks shoes could only be bought in shops that smell of wee, run by men in grey polyester trousers selling Cornish Pasty shoes and cushioned insoles to the bunioned.

But in Clarks in Oxford Street, it is all white and glass with music on the soundsystem, and the shop assistants are all under the age of 16 and leap on you with their teeth bared. They have headsets on and bark instructions to the Shoe Monkeys in the basement in weirdly accented English: "For me a favour please Peter, what the shoes yes, Aldo in the size 41, black, sharp-quick please ciao ciao". There was an old lady in there but she looked a bit scared, so left and went to John Lewis where she will have been no happier.

I don't know what the world's coming to. Next thing I know you'll be able to buy nice clothes in Sainsburys and talk to people on a telephone in the street without any wires.

Day 90: I Like A Seven And Five Year Old More Than I Like Most People

I am not That Bothered about children. (I try and crush their hands on planes, for example, and think a lot of them are annoying.) I do not press my face against the windows of Mothercare and measure up all Gentleman Callers as potential fathers, because that would be foolish. If I Fall In Love With Someone Splendid I may change my mind; but I am not considering turkey basting syringes and sperm ordered off of the online.

Luckily, my friends have had children. Not only have they not turned into idiots (although they are very tired almost all the time), but I like their children. There is my god-daughter, who chews a rabbit and is magnificent, and the splendid pair I have just spent the weekend with. (They are very kind to their cats, a tiny kitten and a bigger cat who, despite having fangs, is charm itself.)

Me: Thing about whingeing is, it doesn't usually get you what you want. I know. I still try it almost all the time.
F (looking at his mother): That's what she says.
Me: Well, it must be true then.
F: Do you like Grease?
Me: Are you changing the subject?
F: Yes. I don't want to think about that now.*

Later that day, a lovely laydee turns up at Dear Friend's house. I walk into the kitchen. S, aged 5, is standing with his arms sticking out a bit, slightly rigid and wide-eyed and saying to her: "Have you SEEN (insert my name here)", as if I am the Eighth Wonder. (When you are five, your judgement is not always brilliant.)

As I was leaving today, we were all in the back of a cab.

Me: S, why aren't you looking at me?
S: Because you're LEAVING.

I wish all boys made me feel like that.


* There is of course usually a direct correlation between niceness of child and niceness of parents. Dear Friend and her Husband are particularly splendid, as are the parents of my god-daughter. DF - whilst doing a million other things - bothers to draw 'T-Birds' on the back of her sons' jackets in chalk, for example.