Despite reporting on showbiz event for years I still get excited about drinking free champagne, eating delicious canopies/ cupcakes/ petit fours and going home with a smile on my face and a goodie bag in my hand.
You'd have thought by now this would've run thin but I have to admit I still love showbiz schmoozing, once in a while.
Not to mention meeting fit celebrity men, who you can drool over unashamedly, not looking like a mentalist stalker as it's my 'job' to chat to them.
There are a few nights every year in the annual showbiz calendar that genuinely get me excited.
The GQ awards is definitely one of them.
Picture the scene. A sea of tanned, muscly A list men in crisp, tailored suits. A strong stench of testosterone clouding up the air of otherwise overwhelming Gucci/ Channel and D&G aftershave.
Tray after tray of champagne flutes, Gin 'n Tonic fishbowls and an array of rum cocktails being passed around by men in sharp waiter suits.
Meanwhile semi-clad ladies handing out mouth-watering plates of Godiva chocolates.
Jason Statham smoking a cigar in one corner, James Corden throwing some shapes in another, Bradley Cooper being manhandled at the bar, Jamie Redknapp looking sublime entering the gents and Abbey Clancey being sized up by every Y chromosome in the place.
Suddenly out of no-where, across the room I look up and spy One Direction. What the heck were they doing here? Surely it's past their bed time? Are they even allowed to drink yet?
And instantly the glamour of 2011 GQ Man Of The Year Awards begins to fade.
Last year I met Noel Gallagher for the first time. What a dude.
I've been a big fan since my early Oasis days circa 1995, when I used to drive around in my mate's cars getting inebriated listening to What's The Story Morning Glory.
Noel was every inch the ultimate celebrity I'd expected. Cocky but calm, handsome yet dishevelled, sharp-tongued but smart and not afraid to say it as it is. He told me he thought JLS were a boring load of tosh, who need to man up and get some rock 'n roll notches. Never a truer word spoken.
Also Mr Jason 'ardman, plastic gangster Statham shouted at me and my sidekick Sonja last year as we tried to get his attention to ask him a question.
He snarled and shouted, literally shouted at the top of his voice (no exaggeration): "INNNNNN AAAAAAA MMMMMINUTE!!!" at us.
To which, we promptly turned on our heels and did one.
No need to act like a twat Statham a simple, "I'm in the middle of a conversation" would have sufficed.
What a tit.
Anyway, back to this year. Here's a few photos we had....
To recap in brief Micheal McIntyre had a ten minute shouting match with his wife after she witnessed him flirting with The Saturdays. We watched the whole drunken debacle unfold in front of our eyes.
Micheal flirting, chatting and generally drooling over Frankie Sandford and Mollie King while his ever patient missus Kitty stood, alone, embarrassed in the wing.
Que, full on rant from Kitty and Micheal looking like a naughty toddler who'd peed his pants.
Meanwhile a yonder, Abbey Clancey looked impossibly perfect /skinny just four months after giving birth.
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| Me, James Cordon and Sonja |
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| Abbey flashing off her post baby bod |
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| Micheal McIntrye pre-bollocking off his wife and Jimmy Carr |
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| The Saturday's Mollie and Frankie blissfully unaware of the storm in the teacup |
Oh and it's my boyfriend birthday every year on the GQ awards, so I trundled off home at 1am with a swelling goodie bag stuffed with men's gifts...Dunhill aftershave, Clarins eye cream, moisterizer, shavers, books, DVDs, choclates, a bottle of Gin. Xbox game etc...
Naturally, I wrapped them all up and gave them to him as birthday presents the next day.
He was none the wiser.
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