PS. I love booze

Urmm, so. I kinda messed up last night.
I was hoping to spend the whole of January - 31 long, challenging days - as a tea-total, do-gooding warrior of health.
A lover of... the gym, zero-point vegetable broth and kick-ass Pilates in my front room.
However, this all went to pot at around 10pm last night. 28 days in.
My boyfriend arrived from oop north and within a few hours I'd drank two G'nT's, 1/2 bottle of wine white and 1/2 bottle of champagne.
Whoops.
I have no recollection of getting into bed, at apparently 3am, with my make-up and clothes still intact. Nice.

And to add insult to injury, this morning I woke up with an injury. A drunken 'rudy nudy' injury.

I now fully understand what it means to.... "put your back out".

Although, I always thought this mainly referred to randy OAP's.

My boyfriend and I now have a matching pair of agonising lower backs. I shalln't go into anymore details, for the risk of my mother reading this.
However, I must say while I have little, OK.. no memory of how this happened, my fella assures me he put in a sterling effort.
And in this circustance I will have to take his word for it.

  

Since when has Geri been the hottest Spice Girl?

The week was rounded of nicely by going for a Friday morning breakfast soiree with Geri Halliwell.
The former Spice Girl was launching her debut swimwear range for Next at London's glitzy hotel The Savoy. There must be worse reasons to get dragged out of bed an hour early.

I ditched my usual bran flakes and Chris Moyles breakfast routine to lord around in a room full of eagle-eyed showbiz journalists, beauty and fashion writers and photographers.
While sexy models wiggled their tush's in bikinis, floppy sunhats and play suits I gingerly tucked into a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel and a few melon kebabs.

I've met all the Spice Girls, numerous times over the years. One of my early celeb memories was meeting Victoria Beckham when I worked at Nickelodeon TV. That must have been 10 years ago, and she already had an air of spectacularness around her then.
My ex boyfriend, who lives in LA, reckons he's bestfriends with Mel B, an exaggeration that amused me highly when I recently mentioned it to her in her suite at The Mayfair hotel. Oh well, we all know men are prone to the odd fib.

Anyway back to Halliwell. She's much prettier and noticeably posher these days. I last chatted to her at the 2008 Galaxy British Book Awards, we were hanging out with JK Rowling, it was a strange night. She seems to have adopted a Elizabeth Hurley-esq plumy accent since then. On this cold, miserable January morning Geri looked and sounded amazing.

Definitely a step up from the industry ridicule she received for "talking relentlessly" while being a stand-in judge on this year's The X Factor. Oh well, you can't win 'em all.

The Vanessa Show

I was a guest on Channel Five's The Vanessa Show today, chatting about the National Television Awards, The Oscars and all things showbizy.

The studio is cool, although I felt like I'd spent the afternoon hanging around in a posh kitchen showroom a' la MFI. Complete with fake windows and picturesque views.

We discussed Cheryl Cole's chavy NTA dress, which showed off her  naff collection of back tattoos. Colin Firth's chances of nabbing an Oscar and the brand new L cup bra.
It's absolutely monstrous, incase you were wondering.
Big enough for Vanessa Feltz's hubbie Ben to hide his whole head in...
Yep he tried... he's a man. What more do you expect?



I was on the show with Irish musician Imelda May, who could undoubtedly talk the hind legs off a donkey, off Stacey "inane jibber jabber" Solomon and anyone else with chronic verbal diarrhoea.
She has an amazing voice though. And hair.








In other news I had lunch with Olly Murs on Tuesday, at Nandos by London Bridge (me - chicken and feta salad, him - hot and spicy wrap and corn on the cob).


He reckons he'll never get a "flash wankers sports car like a Ferrari or a Porsche". He drives a Fiat Cinquecento, which even The Inbetweeners lads know is shite. Olly, however, thinks it's cool and makes him down-to-earth and normal.
I tend to agree to agree with Simon et al and think it wouldn't be a shame if it 'accidently' got set on fire, in a derelict area of wilderness.
Not that I'd know anything about that.






I hungout with Fearne Cotton at her new makeup range at The Soho Hotel. I had a quick manicure, inhaled a few canapes and chatted to her about her beauty tips. Fearne and I haven't always seen eye-to-eye, mainly because she "hates the media". Obviously, she's not so frosty when she's got a make-up range to flog, hey Cotton?
Either way, it was great to chat and get along like girls who love glittery eyeshadow and nail polish.




I also went too see Priscilla Queen Of The Desert with a group of my girl mates. I was impressed. It was cheesy, naff, stupidly OTT.... but moreishly mesmerising. I still have pink feather boa feathers stuck to my fur coat. A strong look, I think you'd agree?!

Can I get a...'Hell Yeah'

Just need to give myself a virtual back slap.
I've been off the devil's saliva for 27 day/ nights now.
This, my friends, is a mighty big conquest for me.
My wine guzzling, vodka necking, beer sipping, fag smoking, table dancing, stranger meeting, hangover inducing days have been a distant memory.
I have been a tea-total gym-goer for nearly four weeks.
Check me out. High five.

However, as I wallow in this moment of self triumph, Saturday night I intend to meet up with my best friend Sam and heroically stagger off the wagon.

Go.To.Be.Done.

P Diddy Vs Alan Carr Vs Ashley Cole. Bunfight...

P Diddy might be a egocentric fool...but Alan Carr is a tidy, little funbag. 

I wasn't the only person waiting, in vain, to speak to Diddy.
Toothy funnyman Alan was left hanging in the lurch too.
Exactly what the campest man outside of Lapland is doing at a hip hop hoedown is anyones guess.
However, he did say, "I can hold my own in here tonight, I'm cooler than you think."
Yep, sure you are Alan, sure you are.
I think the look on his face says it all....

Mind you, he was forced to sit with Meg Matthews and Calum Best.
Make of that what you will.





Meanwhile in the other corner lounging at a posh VIP table, stacked with champagne, was Chelsea wide boy Ashley Cole, with his boys. Since last year Ashley's been dating (ie shagging or conveniently getting paped with) Playboy model Kayla Collins. I'm sure his ex wifey Cheryl Cole is ecstatic to know he's bonking a plastic-brained boobalious blonde.
Kayla mnaged to tear herself away from tooth-foss bikinis and wrinkly men to hang out in London with Ashley and Diddy.
However, it all went a bit tits-up for the erotic bunny.
Flash Ash didn't speak to her all night... despite sitting directly oposite her. Instead, he sat texting, constantly, on his phone. Always a true gent.
After a few hours of humiliation Kayla threw a wobbler, when he refused to leave with her, and stormed off home alone.
Conveniently moments later, she declared: "Everyone has blown our relationship out of proportion. I'm enjoying being single and dating. I'm looking for Mr Right".
Which actually translates as..."Ashley's blown me out because I make him look too clever and he thinks that's uncool. So, I'm now going to pretend we were never together in a bid to look less stupid. I'm a Playboy Bunny you know, I could have anyone. P.S I'd come running back if he asked me, or text me, or even gave me a second of his time.)

Meanwhile dirty Ash stayed out with the lads, no doubt looking for Mrs Rightnow... the poor unsuspecting cow.

Mugged off by P Diddy

There are many things I'd love to do on a Thursday night, after work, in my free time.

However, wait four agonising hours for an interview with P Diddy is definitely not one of them.
Especially, when the tedious four hour wait turns out to be fruitless exercise because the self-titled King of rap "doesn't want to speak to any press tonight."
Great.

The word 'agonising' might seem a tad melodramatic but hanging around in a dingy nightclub banging out hip hop tunes when you're as sober as Mother Teressa is pretty soul destroying.
There's been many times over my 10 year career in showbiz that I've waited pointlessly for a celeb, only to be told at the last minute said self-important person is too busy, or "doesn't feel like talking today".
However, I'm usually half-cut by that point and therefore relatively jovial about the snub.
Such is the beauty of booze.

I've never met P Diddy/ Puff Daddy/ Puffy/ Diddy/ Sean Combs, before. And always thought of him as a hip hop legend, a businessman, an enigma, a cool dude. So it's fair to say I was intrigued to finally meet him.

However, after waiting hours and getting mugged off my the aging Simon Cowell wannabe, I now conclude that he's a self important muppet, who probably doesn't know his arse from his elbow.

Daft dogs and poor men

Today's been a strange old day.
Laying in bed until 10am feels gloriously indulgent until you have to run around your flat in sheer hysteria trying to get to work for 11am.
I'll never learn. A bit like my dumb Cocker Spaniel who failed to realise, for an entire 5 year span, that the ecstasy of rolling in poo for a mere two minutes just resulted in a horrendous half hour scrub down in the  bath, followed by a grumpy bollocking. Still, this time wasting scenario was repeated day after day.

I went to my first ever Body Attack class at the gym in my lunch break. This gym keenness will never last, it's already starting to feel incredibly tedious.

The day plodded on as normal. One of my colleagues, who has a severe superiority complex, threw her self-appointed weight around in my direction. That gave me mild excitement for 10 minutes and then I got back to work.

I met an old radio colleague from Global Radio for dinner in Soho. The usual was discussed. Why can't boyfriends (fiance in her case) be everything we want and more.

It turns out girls want the real McCoy.
The guy who listens while she moans about work, friends, family, weight etc...while offering clever, balanced opinions. These opinions should be adapted depending on girls mood. Sometimes it's better to just say what you think they want to hear. If you have no idea what this is, just nod encouraging while trying to look sexy.
Girls want their man to be romantic without being cheesy.
Spontaneous without being flaky.
Financially aware without being a bore.
Masculine without being a brainless beefcake. 
In touch emotionally without wearing fake tan.
Passionate and domineering in bed without being a repetitive randy bed banger (come on, we've all been with Mr Fucker Fucker).

The above is why women are never happy. We all want and expect too much.

I'd be content if my boyfriend could occasionally tidy up after himself,  preferably before the kitchen floor disappears under endless food he's spilt all week, mud from his trainers, dust and general crap.

Unfortunately we can't all have everything.

A list shoulder rubbing

Last week I was invited to the UK red carpet premiere of Morning Glory staring Rachel McAdams and ageing hunk Harrison Ford.

I've been a fan of Rachel ever since I adopted a lady crush on her in Wedding Crashers.

And Harrison, well it's Harrison bloody Ford, what's not to love?

I met Harrison for the first time and despite being a lot thinner than I expected, and greyer, he still oozed coolness.

The full-time poser leant seductively against the film's promo board with one foot bent against the wall a'la The Fonz. He's undoubtedly aware that, despite being 68, he's still got it.

I didn't get to meet Rachel, but as she stood at the front of the theatre welcoming everyone to the film I'm sure she looked at me and winked. The lady crush is obviously mutual.

(Disclaimer: Some of the above isn't true... mainly just the winking bit.)

Anyway, I bumped in Kerry Katona and Peter Andre at the premiere; the pair walked the red carpet, chatted to press, posed for pap shots and gave me a big hug. Who knows which they preferred more.

I also chewed the fat with Essex hyper-bomb Stacey Solomon. She wants to pull the rug under Konnie Huq's feet saying "I enjoyed presenting on the X Factor. It was wicked! I am in my element when I'm doing presenting, I wouldn't say no if they offered me to do the Xtra Factor."

Yep, I doubt Konnie would be tickled pink to hear that.

The film was good, by the way. Not brilliant, not rubbish, just good.

Go and see it if a.) You work in morning telly and need some inspiration or b.) You're bored and have a fiver to burn.

In other news I went over to Channel Five today (my boss Richard Desmond owns the channel) to sit in on Live From Studio 5. The crew over there are cool and the office makes ours look like a hostel. Not that I'm complaining ( I clearly am) but they had big sofas with kitsch cushions and wall paper. Thorton's toffee lying around, a drinks fridge full of nice looking beverages and posh black wine glasses. I felt like I was on a fully inclusive holiday in sunny Osterley.

The show went well, Boyzone's Shane Lynch was on (fiiiit) and that guy from Diversity (looks older than 22). Presenter Kate Walsh came over to say hi. She's really pretty, TV doesn't do her justice. She looked Hollywood glam with bouncy hair and flawless skin. But she's tiny, I mean, properly LA skinny. She'd eat a solitary mung bean and be full.

I was surprised. That is all.

Fishy Feet

This week I was invited for a fish pedicure at Anesis Spa in Clapham.
You've probably heard about this new fishy craze which has been making waves in beauty mags.
Bascially you put your tootsies into a tank of fish and they nibble the dead skin off your feet. Simple.




I was a bit squeamish at first, but excited about getting stuck in.
The tank is full of black garra rufa fish - slightly smaller than the average goldfish.
After taking the plunge, I started squealing like a little girl. Yep, embarrassing.
The sensation is bizarre, really ticklish but also really slimy. Hundreds of fish are nibbling away at my toes.
As long as you don't look down,  it's easy to forget what's happening.
I spent the next 30 minutes doing exactly that. Just dangling my feet in the water while focusing on anything but slimy fish wriggling in between my toes. I finally start to relax. And after the initial 10 minutes of weirdness I finally started to enjoy it.

My feet are now definitely softer and smoother. Albeit it, covered in fish saliva (which apparently has a unique healing protein).

I'd definitely go to the spa again, and in hindsight, the initial freakiness of the treatment makes it more fun.

However, my friend (glamour model) Francoise Boufhal hated every minute of it and after a chorus of squeals had to remove her feet instantly.


Poor Francoise having a hard time of it

 

It's definitely worth going, even just to laugh at your mates squirming like little kids...ha ha, sorry Franny.

I'm turning into loser

It's 11pm on a Saturday night and I'm eating strawberry Angel Delight and drinking elderflower Shloer.

Normally, I'd be dancing my drunken ass off in Boogaloo, or the like, covered in somebody else's beer.

I'm not sure how much I like the new me.

Night.

I'm off to read...A Dummies Guide To Becoming A Bore.

Busy Old Week

The general conception that January's the quietest month of the calendar is nothing more than a myth.
My diary's already jam-packed with meetings, work lunches, celebrity events (ie. more work) and friend's birthdays.

I've so far managed a eye watering, inconceivable, fifteen days without booze and junk food ( the longest since my drinking hobbie began). I've joined the company gym. And I even went on a Saturday. A Saturday. The day of perceived weekend fun.

I managed to meet a group of mates for dinner and then to the pub on Thursday night, without touching a drop of the devil's finest. I'll go as far as saying, I enjoyed myself. Despite watching my mates chugging back Pinot by the boat load.

This week my editor declared she's sending me to Los Angeles for the Oscars at the end of Feb, which, fingers crossed, should be a good crack. Hard work, but hopefully pretty radical at the same time.

In work news... Jordan's yet to publicly announce her divorce to long suffering fella Alex Reid.
Despite definitely filling for divorce, Katie Price has decided to let the air clear before she serves Alex the papers and boot him out of their marital home.
A cynical hack would assume she's doing everything possible to get even more coverage in the red tops. However, her 'pals' claim Reidy is devastated and needs a few days to sort out his head before the news goes global. The poor sod.

In other news....

Epic boozer Kate Moss thinks her nonstop paryting has ruined her body and face. Mossy's vowed to put her Croydon Caner ego to bed in 2011 and hopes to stop smoking and boozing like Oliver Reid in drag.

Blood sucker Robert Pattinson and real life sex friend Kristen Stewart will never work together again. While Twilight fans sob off their black eyeliner cranky Kristen promised "We’ll be pursuing solo projects from now on.”

And nutcase Gillan McKeith's convinced she'll become a Hollywood actress and star in a comedy blockbuster with Ricky Gervais. She also threatened to sign up for Dancing On Ice next year.
No Gillan, no.

My boyfriend's a fool

Today started off as a normal Friday.
Woke up, fed the cat, showered, made an Earl Grey, danced around the kitchen to Chris Moyles' Golden Hour, got dressed and called my boyfriend, who lives 122 miles away from me.
It's 11am.
The boy tells me he's "dying" from the flu.
He feels "the worst he's EVER felt" and "it just miraculously arrived this morning". Blah blah blah. He's a man, and therefore, being over dramatic.
I jump on the tube, slightly worried about my intense day ahead, got a PR lunch, interviewing a WAG in the afternoon and have a stack of story payments to sort out. Then after work I have to drive 122 miles up the motorway to nurse my sick man for the weekend.
I call my boyf at 1pm to see if he needs me to buy any paracetamols/ throat sweets. He doesn't pick up. Which is unusual, he loves a good chinwag.
I carry on with my work.
I call again at about 3pm, no answer.
Usually by this time we'd have chatted over BBM, and on the phone, maybe a few times. General stuff about weekend plans, looking forward to seeing each other (we've been apart all week) etc.
I finished work, and call again before I jump on the tube home. No response.
Up until now, I haven't really thought much about our non-communication, I'd missed chatting to him, but on a whole wasn't concerned.

On the tube, the man and woman sat beside me are talking about swine flu.
Him: "Everyone seems to have the flu at the minute, I read in the newspaper today 39 people have died of swine flu"
Her: "That poor girl, who died three days after giving birth. It's awful."
Silence between them both for a while.
Her: "It's scary to think, one minute your sniveling into a tissue, next you're dead."

I feel a mild panic run over me.
I haven't been able to get hold of my boyfriend all day. Since he told me, albeit, in a over the top man fashion, he was "dying".
I call him four more times on the way home. No answer. It's now 6.45pm and I've had seven unanswered calls and he's not rang me back. All of my BBM's are sat in his inbox, unopened.
Should I still drive to see him?  Maybe he doesn't want to see me? Weird.

By now he'd  have 100% called to discuss plans, we haven't spoken about the weekend in previous phone calls all week. Usually, I drive straight to the pub to meet him.
My mind's racing, with possible scenarios. All seeming completely rational.
Has he's collapsed in his flat with swine flu?
Maybe he banged his head on the way down? Did he manage to call an ambulance? I wonder which hospital he's in?
Oh god, he's actually collapsed, and died. On the spot. Of swine flu.
I'm going to open the door and find him dead, on the floor. Naked.
I try and start to pull myself together.
He's been arrested.
He can't answer his phone because the police have it in a plastic bag. He doesn't even know i;m trying to get hold of him because his phone's in a police box.
Why's he been arrested? Will he be in a cell all night? What will our parents say?
Shit, maybe he's been attacked, in his flat. He could have a secret stalker, like that poor Joanne girl.
I'm going to get to his flat, and see the door smashed in and blood everywhere, oh god.
It continues...
He's furious with me, he's just found out I cheated on him, and now he hates me and will never speak to me again.
I've never cheated on him, so this can not be true. There's nothing to uncover.
Phew.
I actually said "phew" out loud. What a nob, that particular scenario could never be true. Oh God, I'm started to get brain hysteria.

I get home, call a few more times. No answer. I've now called ten times. Ten times.
I sit down, with my cat. She's no use, she just wants feeding. As usual.
I almost cry. I feel sad and confused. What should I do? No-one has a key to his flat but me. Most his mate are away travelling at the moment or live miles away.
I start to pack my bag, thinking 'I have to go, even just to find his dead, naked body, covered in blood, slumped on the floor of his flat.' I can't leave him there, alone. Also, I can't sit here worrying.

Then suddenly my mobile starts ringing. It's 7.30pm.

A chirpy voice rings through: "Hi babe, how's it going?"
"What's going on?" I manage to stutter, "Are you OK, I've been so worried, I've been trying to get hold of you all day."
"Yeah, I'm cool, babe" he replies.

I'm speechless. Angry blood is rushing, gushing, spewing to my head. I put the phone down.

To cut a long story, short.

He fell asleep on the sofa, after playing FIFA on the X Box, all day.
He left his phone under his pillow in the bedroom, so couldn't hear it ringing.
But, it's all OK as he's now on Level 23 on the X Box and thinks, with enough practice, he could play FIFA... professionally.... for money.

Fucking men.

Also, could I "stop off at Tescos on the way" as he's "so ill, and fancies a spag bol for tea".

I'm still speechless and starting to feel like a Class A nobber.

Tough as old boots

Well it's fair to say Jordan has outdone the papers/ TV news shows and a host of big-mouth showbiz experts this week.

Living up to her claim that people should "never underestimate the Pricey" - Katie Price has definitely bamboozled the showbiz world regarding the imminent announcement that she's set to divorce lovable beefcake Alex Reid.

All week people have been waiting with baited breathe (OK slight exaggeration) to see what the mammoth boobed star's next move will be in the ongoing saga of Jordan's doomed love life.

However, in true Katie (I loved to wind up the media) style she's left us all hanging on a limb.

And for once, I say, fair play Price.

However, poor Reid. The unfortunate blighter always resembled an unsteady puppy on a slippery canal bank around Miss P.

Hopefully he'll find a way to not sink.

Jordan and Alex Reid.... the end of something monstrous.

So the showbiz world is in a frenzy as Katie Price and Alex Reid are set to officially announce their separation this afternoon.
It's just flashed up as Breaking News on Sky News... gotta be true then, hey? (cough, cough)
All I know so far is it was Jordan's decision to end the marriage, Alex is said to be "distraught" and the statement will be brief (maybe in honour of their short-lived nuptials? 11 months if anyone cares.)

Anyway us, the Daily Star, the royal 'we', have been reporting for months that Jordan and Alex were going to split... so right now we’re feeling a little smug.
Albeit, a wee bit sad for Alex, as he generally seemed like an all round nice guy, pre-Jordan.
We said Alex should’ve sacked Jordan off (in a nice way, obviously, “it’s not you, it’s me” blah blah) when he won Celebrity Big Brother, bet he wishes he had now. Poor blighter.

Piers Morgan has already jumped on the bandwagon tweeting that he thinks Jordan could get together with Sir Alan Sugar after the big bazooka'd babe told him Alan was "very sexy, for an old geezer."
Other people think Alex will how take part in and win Celebrity Tool Academy, which is bound to be commissioned at some point.
By the way, if you haven't checked out Tool Academy on E4, you should.
Pure, comedy viewing. Oodles of men who clearly need to spend more time away from the mirror and out of their own arses.
Anyway.
It's unfortunate that Jordan’s marriage has failed, at the very same time Peter Andre finally, after a year of banging on about being lonely and wanting a bed buddy, finds love with sexy senorita/ part time WAG Elen Rivas.
Life's a bitch.

Another theory is... this was a cunning plot by the glamour gofer to ruin arch enemy/ nemesis/ more successful rival Posh Spice's limelight.
The Pricey (self named, still makes us a little queasy) loves trying to overshadow and out-do Victoria.
And it's safe to say Vicky B's baby announcement is now firmly old news.
She's a clever old boot that Price character.

Anyway, on a serious note, I think these type of doomed celebrity marriages are really sad.
Why do people get married after knowing each other 28 minutes? It's bound to end in heartbreak.
Oh, actually, Jordan doesn't seem to have much of a heart these days, does she?
Knowing her, she flogged it for a fiver.

So, it's time to shake off the Christmas junk...

The world and it's wife has started 2011 with a New Year detox (and don't they love banging on about it).
A life without alcohol, cigarettes, chocolate, sausages rolls, oven roasted camembert, fizzy laces - all the things that make me happy to see another day.
So, I made a pragmatic decision (a.k.a moment of dick-headedness) to follow suit... if I'm going to suffer their constant inane Weight Watchers bollocks, I might as well get skinnier listening to it.
This now means I'll spend my days sombrely tapping away showbiz tales on my dirty work Mac surrounded with such "delights" as celery, carrots, strawberries, green tea and a heroic vat of home-made soup.
Gone are boisterous wine-guzzling lunches a'la December. 
And it's safe to say there'll be a severe lack of juvenile laughter heard bellowing from my desk this January.
But at least my screen will no longer be a confusing, fuzzy pre-Christmas blur (although I quite like that moment when your drunken eyes start to focus wholly on the white trails between the words and everything else becomes a insignificant blur).
I'll definitely miss the sniggering and intoxicated hysterics... but I'll have diminishing bingo-wings and will, hopefully, stop ruining other people's perfectly nice photos.
Who knows, I might even join the company gym, after all, it's only a fiver...

Who needs boozy business lunches, I've got Nettle tea. 

Sob. Pass me the gun. Quick.