Shitsticks!" I thought to myself when I suddenly remembered that I had a column to write this week. I've worked seven days straight without a hint of a social soirée to attend, and my mind is broken. I'm painfully aware that thus far, none of my ramblings have related whatsoever to the title The Independent ambitiously gave this column, "Girl About Town". I suppose they assumed that my life was an endless parade of outfits at glitzy parties and gigs, and while this is a strong contender for what I do, it's certainly not how I make a living.
A quick look at The Independent's website revealed that Alex James really did supply readers with excerpts from his rural notebook, and that Tracey Emin also managed to stay on topic and write about her life – in a column. So I do apologise for my failure and will endeavour to tell you about the one night out that I did manage to squeeze in.
When night falls, I moonlight as a DJ, and this week I spun a bunch of nu-metal to a room full of drunk hipsters who abandoned ship as soon as the gin ran dry. One Sun hack recently pointed out: "As if it wasn't irritating enough to have to refer to misery guts Alexa Chung as a TV presenter/model/DJ, it now seems as though we need to add 'designer' to that list..."
While this isn't true, and he seems to have overlooked "biting columnist", I'd have to agree with him about it being annoying to have to litter my job description with /s. Anyone who needs to do this clearly doesn't have a proper job. Having said that, juggling CDs at 11pm after already recording five days' worth of television from 8am certainly felt like hard work. (Stop me if I'm moaning like a misery guts.)
The morning after DJing, which ended up being incredibly good fun, the beyond-irritating beeps of my BlackBerry alarm woke me from my slumbers and prompted a sulky stroll to the bathroom. The Maker's Mark whiskey with which I had liberally doused my throat the previous night finally took its toll a bit later as I attempted to mount a horse while dressed, somewhat ironically, as a damsel in distress.
Dressing up in costume is something that features heavily in the television work I do. In the course of the week, I have been a sexy elf, an evil cowgirl, Joe Pesci in Home Alone, and Bono (for whom, rather disturbingly, I provided the costume from my own wardrobe).
I worked over the weekend, leaving my house in the dark and arriving home in time for The X Factor on Saturday night. With my boyfriend away and my limbs and brain refusing to co-operate, I decided to stay in and watch a programme I had previously deemed dull and desperate. I'm now sorry I ever thought this because the drawn-out process of waiting for Britney Spears to arrive was more exciting than Christmas Eve, and when she finally did appear on my screen, her disengaged banter and lacklustre performance sort of made me love her even more.
That night, I ate my way through a whole packet of biscuits without hesitation and even picked a favourite contestant: Alexandra.
On Sunday, I actually interviewed Alex James for Channel 4's T4, and wanted to ask him whether he too found it tricky to write a column in keeping with its designated title. I wanted to know whether sometimes he felt like letting loose on the debauchery of the Blur days rather than how best to maintain your rhododendrons, but instead ended up mumbling something about how nice his brogues were, and asking the following: "Somebody on your TV show said they wanted to shove cheese up your bottom. If this were to happen, which cheese would you opt for?"
He said that he'd rather it were a soft cheese, which instantly told me that he's far too wise to stray from a column title.
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