Danny Dyer is still my one true love and Philip Olivier will never leave my heart, but move over boys. I am now officially obsessed with Scott Maslen.
I used to love him as Phil Hunter in The Bill, but now he has turned up as Jack Branning in EastEnders and I am hooked.
Just look at him.
There are no words.
Let's hear it for the boy.
He only went and got the job.
Yep, they called yesterday and offered me the position, despite all the hassle and lies surrounding my reference. I don't start till the New Year, so therefore only have six weeks of misery left (until I start there and end up hating it within the first month, which is kind of becoming a habit).
One of two things is true.
A) They were so impressed with my ability, attitude and experience that they overlooked the mess and knew their magazine couldn't survive without me.
B) They are imbeciles.
I know I should favour the first explanation, but I can't help but be drawn to the second.
What can I say? When I turn up at an interview having knocked back half a bottle of vodka, I become irresistible.
Three cheers for me!
How does a moxual celebrate the fact that six days after being paid, he is down to his last £120? Why, by taking his limp-wristed friend out and hitting the town, of course.
Both me and Doormouse are in veritable financial cul-de-sacs, so we thought 'to Hell with it' and squandered more cash on booze.
We hit the old faithful Retro Bar on the Strand and it turned out that the grubby little gayers have a 'Be a DJ for 5 Songs' evening. Basically, once you've poured enough cheap hooch down your neck to rid yourself of all traces of dignity, you can hook up your iPod to their DJ booth and play any 5 songs of your choice. But you have to stand in the booth to make sure everyone knows who thinks they have good taste in music.
It only took me two ciders to be brave/naive (delete as appropriate) enough to partake and so jumped up, plugged in and set out to wow the crowd. It turns out that Prince, Eurythmics, Janet Jackson, Timbaland and Sneaky Sound System do not go down well in a pub full of tattooed stinkers. Even before the first of my tracks had hit the chorus, most of the drinkers (including Doormouse) had vacated for a smoke outside.
Once the torture was over, we decamped and headed to the other dive within walking distance – Halfway to Heaven. The plan had been to swan in looking fabulous and be the best things there; to be big fish in a little pond. As we stood there fearing for our lives, we realised that we weren't in fact the best things there as we were kind of in love with the rogue's gallery. Yes, they'll slit your throat as soon as they're finished with you, but boy, what a way to go.
The heaving testosterone was too much to bear, so we left after a couple of ciders and petrified glances with gangsters and ended the night at the Ku Bar playing our new favourite game (Doormouse officially created it, but I pass it off as my own), Guilty Pleasures.
The premise is simple: name the men you fancy that you know you shouldn't.
While Doormouse listed Dr Hilary Jones (off the telly), Gordon Ramsay and Jack Dee, I shamed myself by naming Dev from Coronation Street, Rod Stewart and O.J. Simpson.
The only rule with the game is that you cannot judge. A guilty pleasure is free from ridicule.
One phrase I tend to use frequently is: nothing's ever simple.
One I shall start using more often is: I am a bell-end.
Due to the nine hours of daily misery I call a job, I have been on the prowl for more meaningful employment since about three minutes into my current role.
I thought I had found the answer to my prayers – a similar job on a glossy magazine at one of the top three publishing houses. I applied thinking I didn't have a hope in hell and they asked me in for an interview. It was tough and I thought I had no chance of a call-back. They did call me back and I did my best to wow the editor in my second interview. They said they'd get back to me.
They did get back to me, asking for details of my referees. Rather than asking them why they needed them at this early stage, I duly sent over two, including my current editor.
BAM! They call her the next day, while I am sitting right next to her, asking for a reference. She was like, 'Erm, I didn't know he was even looking for another job.'
It turns out, unbeknown to me, their policy is not to make a formal offer until they have two references in their glamorous paws.
Long story short, I have been frantically getting other people to write references, all the while sitting next to my current editor who now knows I am looking for another job. To say that the atmosphere is awkward wouldn't do the situation justice.
Oh, and based on the conversations I had with the new people regarding my faux pas, I think it is safe to assume I won't actually be getting the new job. Something to do with inconsistencies between my reference and what is stated on my CV.
Once again, the only person I have screwed is myself.
I need a drink.
