Yuletide on the Gogglebox

Gavin and Stacey has done the impossible and out-underwhelmed Doctor Who. From personal experience, this is an unrivalled occurrence. Doctor Who is my problem child, so promising yet forever missing its potential by a mile. But Gavin and Stacey? Former blue-eyed boy currently not only bottom of the class but in fact warranting getting its parents in. Ruth Jones and James Corden, you need to come into school for a chat.


Part of Gavin and Stacey's appeal - and I find it hugely appealing generally - is its bruising yet warm portrayal of everyday life. One of the funniest moments in the episode was Gwen and Pam's kitchen politics with the constant cry of "is there anything I can do?" perfectly mirroring Christmas Day in most houses.


Unfortunately, the hour length and single episode emphasised the how non-eventful it is without capitalising on the charm. Smithy and Nessa were once the funniest things in the programme, and still to a certain extent were - Smithy's observation that his baby was coming "albeit with his mother and her boyfriend, but such is the modern world" and Nessa's brilliant interaction with the baby monitor: "Oy! He's on his way!" - but their tension went unresolved, despite providing one of the most painful moments in this year's television with Smithy's distress at his son's early indoctrination into supporting Cardiff City. Gavin's move to Cardiff was brought up and then abruptly dropped, presumably to be reintroduced in the third series - but what was the point in bringing it up at all? Jason and Bryn's fishing trip was brought back for an encoure but not elaborated upon and the neighbours' mother-in-law was dragged in for a laugh that oddly never paid off. The whole thing seemed like an elongated season premiere that didn't work because there is no premiere for months. It was a huge misfire, and given the attention Gavin and Stacey has deservedly won, and earned its move to BBC1, it was a great waste. Why would you then cripple it like this? Who would be converted by that? I'm already converted, and I hated it! The Office's sensational Christmas specials were brilliant because, as the Last Hurrah of the series, they wound it all up so the Extra Special Length and Timing was okay. This Christmas special, as a place-holder, frustrated me so greatly it has actually diminshed my love for the series. Even more than those awful in-vision commentaries on the DVDs did. Which are, incidentally, a dire concept.


Elsewhere, Doctor Who giveth and taketh away. But I'm so delighted Doctor Who giveth at all these days after two desperately poor years, that I'm giving them a pass. Great writing for once, and a dazzling performance from David Morrissey who somehow rose above the whole thing and made it into a dramatic piece of epic proportions that reduced my seven-year-old niece to tears in the best possible way. How often are children moved that way simply by a middle-aged man sitting quietly and thinking of his dead wife? It was magnificient, such an amazing performance that I got over my disappointment at the fact David Morrissey was NOT, as a matter of fact, going to be the next Doctor. Even David Tennant's maddening Doctor failed to drive me to blind homicidal rage. All in all, it was a success. In fact, my enjoyment of it was equalled only by the unveiled competitiveness on Dancing on Ice, a programme which not only stirred up the battle of the sexes but handed electric cattle prods to both sides. I personally favour the ice dancing over Strictly, if only because you can generally tell when the dances have gone wrong on the ice, often because of the flowing blood. As my brother remarked when my mother attempted to put forward Strictly as the best viewing: "If they start doing the headbanger on Strictly, I'll watch." Also, the fluctuating and fantastically tense relationship between Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean on Dancing on Ice is hypnotising. And Suzanne Shaw's merciless nettling of Chris Fountain's arrogance was a thing of beauty.


BBC4 weighed into the Christmas spirit with Renaissance-man Mark Gatiss and his Crooked House, paired with Lee Ingleby, an actor I adore from Spaced, Master and Commander and the Wind in the Willows. The less said about that Martin Shaw police thing set in the 60s the better (Martin Shaw - there's a man whose career has had some swerves. The Professionals = awesome. Then - The Lost Years. Judge John Deed/60s police thing = depressingly safe but successful. Apparitions = off-the-fucking wall batshit). Once you readjusted to the Crooked House's pace - i.e. BBC4's pace - you realised it was marvellous television, albeit slooooow. Nothing wrong with that. Lets you breathe. Has an actual story you can muse over without being whacked over the head. And walls seeping blood. What more do you want with your mulled wine?

Not much motivated to catch the most-watched programme this year, Wallace and Gromit, since I am not three and since my niece and nephews find them annoying for reasons I can't establish apart from the fact they are extremely spoilt and are more interested in their Wii. The 39 Steps looks promising, if oddly scheduled.


Meanwhile, I am driving Monkey raving mad by watching all my new DVDs commentaries. "You are the only person in the world who watches them," he claims. I maintain this is not true - there must be others who watch them purely to enjoy Schadenfreude as the producers recall a particularly cold day or a nightmarish location. And who cares anyway. Currently my brother's cat is lulled into a coma by my stroking, Monkey is lulled into a coma by Mad Men and I am lulled into a coma by my mother's roast dinner. Merry Christmas, one and all.

Wallander: And The Swedish Tourist Board Wept

"Every time he opens a door, I keep expecting there to be a cliff or something," said Monkey, suddenly.

He had a point. There are definite shades of Ingmar Bergman about Wallander, a show which flirts with surrealism and boredom in equal, fascinating measure. Is this inactivity sinisterly antmospheric or simply an absence of plot?

Kenneth Branagh wafts through the whole bizarre malarkey with his usual air of talent and egoism, meaning that for all the otherworldly feeling of Wallander, there is also a decided mood of "yeah, well, it's Kenneth. We never understand" about it. "You didn't get The Magic Flute?" Kenneth asks. "Well, suck this up, you lazy, voyeuristic bastards who tune in to watch murder and crash out on a Sunday evening from your living rooms in Shropshire. You're about to be kicked up the arse." Yes, Kenneth is adopting the Trojan Horse method in his campaign to bring cinematic Art to the British people, whether they like it or not. People who have a certain soft spot for Foyle's War are abruptly viewers of Scandinavian surrealism, thinking "well...I expect it's good for me", in slight fascinated dismay.

Anyway, Wallander succeeded in its self-proclaimed aim to prove there is more to Sweden than Abba and Bjorn Borg. (And Ikea, but they didn' t mention that because it's the BBC. Other suppliers of flat-packed furniture are available). No - there are also plentiful fields of rape (plant rape, not...you know), grisly murders in unlikely rural locations, and weepy detectives who seem not to be hardened to the challenges of the job after a lifetime. Oh, and cute bullied underlings.

Let's not go there.

For the Love of Merlin

I love Merlin. There, I've said it. I said it yesterday while standing in Louis of Hampstead and was looked at as though in the grip of a raving insanity. Why? People love Doctor Who, Robin Hood is accepted - Merlin outguns them.

A fusion of Disneyland, Harry Potter and High School Musical, with a dash of Buffy and the faintest seasoning of, you know, Arthurian legend, it is frankly a dizzying and intoxicating mess of hysteria, hilarity and a good, old-fashioned romance. It is, essentially, everything Robin Hood tried and failed to be. The effects are awful (though survivable if one has lived through Primeval), the scripts suspect ("Arthur is, like, so annoying", along with the mention of "Destiny" at least ninety-five times an episode) and the acting uneven (Giles-from-Buffy up against Blondey McArthur is a non-challenge), but it is fun.

Of course, it means checking your basic knowledge of the legends at the door. Merlin, Arthur and Guinivere (sorry, Gwen) are all the same age, and Gwen is more interested in Merlin than Arthur anyway, Lancelot is probably older than Arthur, and Artimedes, I regret to say, is nowhere to be seen. There is also depressingly little in the way of turning Arthur into squirrels or fish, and no singing at all. Even when the Lady of the Lake turned up, it was on dry land and no lakes were mentioned.

Naturally, none of this really matters. Morgana is gorgeous, Gwen is sweet, Arthur looks boy band fabulous and Merlin is an adorable geek. After an initial wringing of hands and shrieking "Child, child, was it for this I ploughed through Morte d'Arthur?" you begin to appreciate the sheer wonder of it. We have it all, everything beloved of The CW: rebellious sons, love between men, love between women and men, closeted secrets (the magic closet rather than the gay closet, but judging by the charged looks between Merlin and Arthur it could go either way), life lessons, jousting.

And lots of hugging and learning.

It's brilliant!

The Joy of Texas

Mostly, the culture clash between Monkey and I is not too intense. We take the piss out of each other's accents fairly constantly- although he can do my norf Lundun easier than I can do is Richardson, Texas drawl, mostly because since he moved here when he was 16, his Texan accent has evened out.


But you can't take Texas out of the man. Years into living with him and knowing him better than I know anyone outside my immediate family, it still makes me smile when he calls people (including his mum and dad) 'ma'am' and 'sir'.

Texans - and he is Texan, not American - Texans are different. When he visited me in Los Angeles, he was visibly out of tune with your average Californian. I knew way more about Texan culture than my LA flatmate did, by which I mean I listen to country music without falling off the chair laughing.

So Monkey has loped off back to Richardson for a while. I turned down the chance to join him, partly because of my dire financial situation, partly because for all that I love Richardson and Dallas, once you have been once, there really has to be a good reason to go back (harsh, but a better one than Monkey's really lovely family and friends), and I've been many times.

However I admit now he is gone I am all misty-eyed for Texas.

Reasons to Love Texas

1. The Roads
Bigger roads than you knew possible. Huge. Massive. You have to take a picnic with you when you cross them.

2. The Trucks
Sure, there are pick-up trucks everywhere in America, especially in California. But something about sitting outside a roadside bar in the parking lot in a truck, drinking beer under the Texan stars (see below) puts me in my happy place.

3. The Music
I love country music. And the Lone Star State has some cracking stuff, blaring out all over the place. Sing it!

4. The Sky
I know Montana is known as the Big Sky, but as far as I'm concerned Texas has more sky than I knew existed. Sky is everywhere! EVERYWHERE!

5. Friday Night Lights

"IT'S ONLY FOOTBALL!"

(..But they like it. A lot. An awful lot.)

Once you scream this at the screen and get it off your chest, Friday Night Lights is actually not the monumental chore that, to be honest, I had it pegged as. I don't know the first thing about American football, and I don't have the smallest desire to do so. But if anyone out there wants a picture of Texas, look no further. Richardson is by no means smalltown Texas, but I think I understood Monkey's childhood more after watching it. Not least why we must have Dallas Cowboys shit everywhere. It is, and I do not say this lightly, probably the most literate, intelligent, well shot and written drama on US TV right now.

It's not only football. It's a way of life. (And also, it's not football at all because it's American football. But I'll keep that to myself.)

90210: Round, Round Like a Record Baby

I am pleasantly surprised that The CW hasn't called 90210 "The 90210". That was one of the very few good decisions made in the development of the series.

I fall between stalls on the Beverly Hills 90210 situation. When the original was on, the kids were older than I was, and to be honest the whole thing was little short of a fantasy for me. The first time I went to LA I was genuinely amazed that there really was a Beverly Hills, and even more staggared that their ZIP code was actually 90210. They were characters of epic proportions for me, well beyond the scope to imagine for a London schoolgirl. So while I liked the series a lot and watched it religiously, the characters themselves never really touched an emotional nerve for me. But now I watch 90210 and the kids are younger than me - yet having a lot more fun than I ever did, the bastards. I know plenty of people my age (only early 20s) enjoy teen dramas, but personally? I find it difficult to care too much about the revolving doors of teenage relationships. I even found that boring on Buffy, and she used to kill vampires in between those bits.

So we have a group of rich kids, undergoing the sort of adolescent dramas which we all know - from other TV shows rather from actual life. I don't know if my school was just really boring, but I swear to God we never had a Social Queen, or a sports team which ruled the world (lacrosse? Really? Did they just not pick American football because of Friday Night Lights? Is lacrosse really that big?), and even the drugs and sex such as they were, weren't all that exciting. But we didn't have mansions, boats or private jets either so perhaps that's where the difference is.

I actually like The CW. 98% of their stuff is utter shit, but at least it's not all procedurals. But it has shown almost laudable lack of imagination by commissioning 90210. Let us recap the heritage of this drama.

1. It is spawned from Beverly Hills 90210, which eventually died a horrible death after everyone who watched it outgrew it, as did the cast.

2. Meanwhile, someone at The CW's illegitimate father The WB saw Beverly Hills' demise and thought, 'why not do a Beverly Hills 90210 on the East Coast?' and hence was born Dawson's Creek, a monstrous creation which nearly ruined my young adulthood. I wish I was of the Beverly Hills generation and not someone who once thought Pacey's angsting on the pier was the height of romance.

3. Anyway, Dawson's Creek eventually and mercifully sank (though it lives on in the adorably nice-but-dull One Tree Hill), and someone at FOX pondered 'why not do a Dawson's Creek on the West Coast?' and dreamt up The OC, probably the most teeth-gnashingly conservative, dull and focus-grouped of the whole lot.

4. The OC burned itself out, its premise of having every single character maddeningly paper-thin was ambitious but ultimately flawed. So someone at The CW thought, 'why not do an OC on the East Coast?' and, against all feeling for their fellow-human beings green-lit the unforgivaebly awful Gossip Girl.

5. Gossip Girl, a symbol of the end of civilisation if ever there was one, was an actual success. But The CW has, in its panic for viewers, jumped its cue and thought 'whynotdoaGossipGirlontheWestCoast?' and finally, finally someone there had watched TV in college and realised that actually, Gossip Girl has been done on the West Coast, endlessly; decided to save on the development period and announced: why not steal the conceit of Beverly Hills 90210 and all the plot devices of the others? How could it fail? 90210, welcome to the world!

Perhaps I am just too old and jaded for these dream worlds now and that's why I'm of the opinion that they don't make 'rich teen dramas' like they used to. 90210 does buck the trend, it isn't actually anywhere near as bad as Gossip Girl or The OC, judging by the premiere. But you can see where it is going, as though the plot was lit up like a runway. It's just too familiar. It is chewing gum for the brain, a place-holder. If it is a success, it will be from nostalgia nuts. But seriously. I know there aren't any new ideas, but there are better ones. I refuse to believe that there are enough young or feeble-minded viewers to support the existence of One Tree Hill, Gossip Girl AND 90210. I really hope there aren't, anyway.

If we're bringing stuff back, why not 21 Jump Street?

Media and Film Studies: Some Thoughts

I got a call today from a friend of my mother's. Her daughter - my mother's friend's daughter, not my mother's daughter, that would be me - her daughter is off to university to do Media and Film Studies. As such a paragon of success in the television industry, did I have any advice for this fresh-faced, intelligent eighteen-year-old?

Er, yes. I did, as a matter of fact, but she wouldn't want to hear it. My advice is: don't do it.

There are many reasons why not. And as a disclaimer, I should add I did not study either media or film at university, so my understanding of such degrees comes from the outside. But crucially - that's exactly where future employers' understanding of the degrees comes from too. Also, I am writing this in my mother's living-room while watching Diagnosis: Murder, and hanging around for three weeks for my next job. So, what do I know?

The simple truth of the matter is this. When I graduated with a degree in English Literature, I didn't know one end of a Z1 from the other. I didn't have the slightest desire to ever make a film of my own. I wanted to be a writer. I ended up working on a BAFTA-winning historical series as a researcher by purest fluke. It wasn't knowing people or having any technical knowledge, it was that they needed my academic research skills and the Line Producer liked me. That was that. From there, I have had years of steady work in television. It was Luck. And if we're being brutally frank - and we should be - Luck can happen to just about anyone, whether or not you have spent £20,000 on a degree in Media and Film Studies.

Furthermore, after nearly 3 years in telly, I STILL don't really know one end of a Z1 from the other, I STILL don't want to make a film of my own and I STILL want to be a writer. This is depressing for me, to be honest, but also demonstrative of this basic fact. Below Assistant Producer level, no one really gives a shit about whether or not you can self-shoot. No one gives a damn what your ambitions are to be a director or producer. No one CARES. In fact - and I know this from several separate directors, it counts against you. It will NOT help you get a job from university. Knowledge of editing equipment will NOT help you get a job from university. From university, you will be a Runner, or if you are unbelievably lucky you will be a junior researcher. Trust me on this: you will NOT be self-shooting, directing or editing and no one will care about your opinions on the shooting, directing or editing. People hiring you will NOT care about your potential, because this is a freelance industry, so they aren't going to benefit from your trajectory over the years, and before anyone starts thinking the BBC is different, may I advise you that they don't ever move anyone up there. I know someone who was a runner there for the best part of four years.

To get a first foothold in the industry is hard, but that's because of competition and lack of jobs rather than tough entry qualifications. If you are smart, enthusiastic, willing to do shitty jobs with a smile and meet someone who likes you, you are in. All other skills you will acquire on the hoof. Unfortunately, media graduates generally have to work harder to be liked, because a lot of employers have been burned by smartasses (not typical of every media graduate, but it's the same old story -for every 10,000 perfectly nice graduates, there's 1 asshole everyone remembers). I remember one turning to me and saying: "you work deceptively hard". There's nothing deceptive about it, friend.

If you want to go into TV, find another interest and do a degree in that and come back to television. Having in-depth knowledge of a subject will always help you find work in TV. A degree in Media and Film Studies simply won't.

Reader, Dump Him

Something tells me that David Duchovny has been caught with his pants down by Tea Leoni. But it's okay, it's not cheating, it's sex addiction.

What the fuck ever. Most men married to the almost impossibly wholesome and beautiful Tea Leoni wouldn't look upon this as a great problem. And most men with a modicum of maturity wouldn't put his wife and his children (one of whom is 9, for God's sake, more than old enough to understand what's going on and be bullied in the playground about it) through this ridiculous charade. Say sorry and if she forgives you, she forgives you; and if she doesn't then she'll kick you to the curb which you more than deserve.

Sex addiction doesn't exist. As someone who has lived with a drug addict, I somehow do not think while Mr Duchovny is boning some nubile young blonde he is hysterical and sick, filled with the deepest, violent and most horrific self-hate and loathing, begging every deity to relieve him of this terrible burden of sex addiction combined with good looks and money. If anyone has a destructive addiction, I'd say it's Tea Leoni jonesing for her husband. Sweetie, you can do so much better. I realise it isn't actually any of my business, but this drives me crazy. It's insulting to real addicts. How can real addiction be recognised as a dreadful disease, when you have wankers like him using the name in vain?

There are ladies' men - Hugh Grant - and the women who stay with them know it and stay anyway. Hugh Grant is too rational to say he has sex addiction when actually he just wants a lay. Then you have the ones that make a mistake - Matthew Broderick - it remains to be seen if Sarah Jessica Parker stays with him, but at least they're handling it in as dignified a way as you can after the fact your husband has screwed a 20-something for months has hit international headlines.

Monkey has just suggested that perhaps she's making him go to rehab because it's in the pre-nup that she doesn't get as much money if she doesn't support him through that first and then dump him. That's actually a possibility. How Hollywood.

Old Things Are Made New Again

The Famous Five are returning. Initially I thought in the sense that the books would be reissued with flashy new covers. But au contraire. No, no they're returning in the sense that some mad people are writing new books. 21 weren't enough? And the publisher isn't stopping with the Famous Five. The Secret Seven is also being dragged into the 21st century along with, heaven help us all, Malory Towers. (Controversially, Malory Towers was always my favourite series, followed hot on the heels by St Clare's. My older brother once wrote to Jim'll Fix It asking him to send me to boarding school, because I was so obsessed).

Why, in the name of all that is holy, would you bother? Enid Blyton's stories are superb, I love them. Who didn't lie there and wish one could sleep on beds of bracken and eat milk kept cool in bubbling brooks and line up one's tins of tongue on shelves oh-so-conveniently occuring naturally in the random cave one had rocked up to? When I was little, of course I wished there were more of them. In the same way that when Roald Dahl died, my brother and I were furious with him because it meant there would be no more books (sorry, Roald, but I'm sure you understand). If kids today don't want to read Enid Blyton's stories, they aren't going to read them. If their eyes no longer set alight at the idea of random children finding treasure in quarries or if they no longer look upon camping out as fun, there is nothing you can do about it. Bastardizing them with overpaid fanfiction is not going to help your cause. And I'm sorry, the King of Siam's royal dragon??? What, did some random villains (inevitably called Jake or Edgar or Stella) steal it from, ya know, Siam, and bury it on Kirrin Island, doubtless in a hitherto undiscovered well, because where else would you hide the royal dragon of Siam?

For all that, there is basically limited damage you can do with the Famous Five and Secret Seven other than give them weak plots which, to be fair to Enid, she did sometimes (let's face it, Five Have Plenty of Fun is no Five Go To Demon Rocks). But Malory Towers has the real capacity to blunder. I have visions of Malory Towers meeting Hogwarts. The four towers, for example. Alicia will become Ron Weasley, Darrell will be Harry Potter and Sally can be Hermione. I can see it now! No, in fact, what I am seeing is that JK Rowling read Malory Towers too. Does Hogwarts have a swimming pool in a cave naturally carved out by the sea though? No, I thought not. In! Your! Face! Potterites!

I think this is just fortuitous timing that old Enid is having a blast of reheated air shortly afterwards being voted Britain's best loved author . I do wonder who on earth's opinion they asked though. I imagine they were all over forty. It's sad to think that in forty years, the top five most loved authors will probably be JK Rowling, JK Rowling, JK Rowling, JK Rowling and Judd Apatow. Anyway, today's top five are fairly uncontroversial, albeit rooted in some sort of idyllic England which exists purely in Richmond: Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, JK Rowling, Jane Austen, Shakespeare.

The first 3 I understand. Fond memories of childhood reading. Or in the case of Rowling, fond memories of feeling like you were a child again. Jane Austen - well, yeah, I enjoy watching her stuff on TV along with eight or nine other million people, not to mention the hotties who prance almost weekly across our screens thanks to her. By rights, it should be Andrew Davies. Shakespeare? Whatever. I was at a performance of King Lear at the Globe last week and people were laughing! Laughing! I swear to God, about half the people at the Globe haven't half an idea what's going on half the time. At the intermission in every play I have ever seen there, the place empties. People have had the 'experience' and then saunter off to get something to eat. But of course he's 'well-loved'.

Where was LM Montgomery? Louisa May Alcott? Frances Hodgson Burnett? Are you seriously telling me that more people love reading Chaucer (number 50) more than making a cup of cocoa, curling up on the sofa and reading Anne of Green Gables? In the words of Mrs Rachel Lynde: "Indeed!"

Once More With Feeling

Reports of the demise of my television career may have been exaggerated. I have just agreed to do a new show which will keep my hands from idleness until January. My current boss is less than enthusiastic by the new project: "Steaming pile of horseshit." Well, possibly. I didn't seek it out, I know the Series Producer and he asked me to do it. Such is the way with this hopeless industry, where the undeserving like yours truly and a million others just land jobs randomly, whereas hundreds of excellent types hunt for them forever. Anyhoo, aside from feeling guilty for robbing work from those who are actually serious about being in TV for the rest of their lives, it looks like it'll be good craic and at the very least it's more cash. Hallelujah. And best of all, it's not for BBC3, so, just possibly, the budget may amount to more than £15 and a mouldy sandwich.

So, I may still be homeless but I have a job. One out of two ain't bad, as Meat Loaf nearly said.

TV Trash and Internet Idiocy

I find it immensely saddening that in a conversation discussing our TV Memorable Moments from the last 12 months, the only one that immediately sprang to mind was watching Denise Richards on "Denise Richards: It's Complicated"*, going through her entry on http://www.whosdatedwho.com/ and getting affronted by some of the inaccurate ones, and clearly affronted that some are missing, getting in that she hasn't dated a "normal" guy since high school (for all the good it's done you, sweets). I remember her saying: "That's so funny" in a tone of voice that implied it wasn't at all funny. (To be fair, it wasn't. John Stamos? Scott Baio? The point of the episode was that she had a thing for bad boys, but I think the issue is more that she has a thing for hair gel and washed up 80s stars.)

Anyway, it was brilliant because honestly, Denise, you FREAK! I am perfectly sure celebrities do check out sites like that and forums, but not on camera. The reek of desperation was glorious. Denise, Denise, Google yourself! Go on! I bet Denise Googles herself at least once a day. Maybe it was when she Googled herself and the last news article was from 2004 that she decided to do a TV show to make sure everyone knows she is still out there, and as horrifically watchable as equally monstrous, good-argument-to-nuke-Beverly-Hills "The Hills." It was like television eating itself in front of you. The Naughties summed up in a single sequence of false "OMG!" Television relies on celebrities, celebrities rely on television. Meanwhile, I rely on Denise Richards and Dina Lohan. How did it come to this?

(The site kept us entertained for a while, especially for the younger celebs whose fans get well over the border of hysteria and forayed well into stalkerdom. Rupert Grint and Lily Allen? Really? Does your mother know? In the words of one disenchanted young fangirl who makes the error of believing an interview above the internet: "how reliable is this site, anyway?" Girlie, for Denise's and Rupert's sake, I hope not very.)

*Note: It Isn't.

More Venting than Mauna Loa

Winn's status on Facebook currently reads: "is sad to be back in London. Does this make me tired of life?"

On the contrary, I think Dr Johnson was either mistaken, misquoted or simply didn't anticipate the 21st century daily irritations of life in this metropolis which rise in one's breast until, as I did today, one bursts into tears on the South Bank and screams "I can't bloody take it anymore!" to the general dismay of the thronging tourists, one of whom dares to point out that I swore in front of her child. Because people don't swear in the backwoods of wherever the fuck she sprang from. Besides, if you don't like swearing, don't go to the God-damned South Bank. In fact, best not to go to London, really. And the language I heard the other day in Henley of all places was astonishing.

Since I am clearly no longer allowed to vent in public, I will vent here. (Incidentally, I think this is where Dr Johnson's London differs. In his, venting of every description was positively encouraged. The wretched Victorians ruined it all.)

Top 5 Irritants of the last 24 hours

1. Flat hunting/estate agents. Can someone explain to me this whole theory of arranging a viewing with three days notice, then ringing half an hour beforehand cancelling it? Or how a flat can be taken between our viewing at 7.30pm and our registering an interest at 8.15pm? Or why it's allowed for tenants to yank our chains by suddenly deciding that actually they want to stay put? Or why the term "bedroom/study" is an accepted term for: "priesthole".

2. Rudeness on Internet Forums A show I worked on went out recently, and the vitriol on display in the forums is really amazing. The thing is, I'm perfectly aware when something I work on isn't much good, and all power to the people who chase down the faults because hopefully everyone raises their game. But this was good. There's no excuse for personal, savage abuse directed at crew members (especially the extremely talented director) on the internet when actually their work quality was high. Just because you didn't like the story, for God's sake! Settle down. You wouldn't say that to someone's face, so don't write it down about them. If you can do so much better, I challenge you to give it a shot.

3. Job Hunting I'm too experienced/ I haven't enough experience. Essentially, after a long education and an extremely challenging few years in a competitive industry, I am of less interest to perspective employers than a school leaver. This irritant will rise to No. 1 after my savings run out (which I anticipate will be shortly after a holiday to Sardinia we are currently planning).

4. The Olympic Spirit. If this means public money funding private egoism and national jingoism, as well as accepting, praising and even acknowledging one of the most revolting, oppressive, human rights abusing regimes in the world whose leaders I wouldn't spit on if they were on fire, then fine: I am all about the Olympic Spirit.

5. Peaches Geldof. I heartily agree with Noel Gallagher's assessment: "somebody, please stamp on her." I'm sorry, sweetie, but most of us have to earn US visas. We can't just marry them. Having said that, if anyone's willing....

I don't mean to sound so awfully bitter. I know it's the weekend. But ultimately all that means is more time to flathunt, of course. Meanwhile, I face excruciating penury, and I am no longer at all sure where my life is going. Apart from that, all is dandy. None of that is the psychic flathunters', or the tourists', or the Olympians', or Peaches' fault, but I can blame them anyway. Why not? I'm writing this on the internet, I can say whatever I like apparently.

At least this post has distracted me from The Tudors, a series that actually gives me heart palpitations from purest rage. "A man born to be king," intoned the first trailer for the first series. No, he wasn't. Henry VIII had an older brother, dumbass. What the hell is the point of disregarding history? I don't get it. If you don't like the historical stories, INVENT YOUR OWN CHARACTERS.

My head! Is done! In!

In the meantime, is there any chance of any sun? Even a bit a warmth would be just wonderful. Otherwise, next July, the last person to leave the UK, please turn out the lights. Because seriously, I don't think anyone else can take a third summer of rain, wind and genuine cold.

It's okay, I'm going to have a lie down now....

The Slough of Despond; Or, flat and job hunting in London

You currently find me in a somewhat depressed mood; as I have, through extraordinary poor planning on my part, put myself in the position of simultaneously job-hunting and flat-hunting. Each of these preoccupations is a monumental hassle individually, put together it is little short of total disaster.

Frequently, you are paralysed by geographical indecision, which, as a long-time freelancer flitting from company to company, I have never really experienced before. If you take that flat in Ladbroke Grove, will your job end up being in Wapping? If you get that job in Tooting, will you end up living in Dollis Hill? And so on. Then, all stands still when you believe you may have finally pinned either job or flat down, only to be thrown into disarray when said job or flat falls through. Meanwhile, you have an increasingly unsympathetic and irate flatmate shouting to just make your damn mind up about where to live, get a job in Holborn like everyone else and deal with it. But as someone who commuted from West Hampstead to White City every day for three months once, I am keen to try and make a sensible, non-District-or-Northern-Line-reliant decision.

Meanwhile, you also have to balance other considerations. Sure, if you get that job, you can afford this flat. Then again, if you rent that flat, it will be okay if you get this job, but is it worth it to have mice in your living room?

It wasn't supposed to be this way. As far as I was concerned, we had ground to an expensive, slightly squalid halt in our current hovel. When we came there a couple of years ago, our area was wedged between two flash bits of North London, all the scummy individuals who once haunted the back alleys of Camden et al had been coralled into a few streets. The rent was reasonable, the transportation good and the flat actually a liveable size. Unfortunately, the braver of the professionals have put on their rubber gloves, got their jabs and have joined us. And brought their massive wage packets and keenness for daylight robbery with them, so our landlord has hiked the rent. I thought we were going to buckle up and take our medicine like good children, but Monkey has decided that damn it, if we are getting fleeced then we will get fleeced somewhere nicer.

So follows a disspiriting trek around the hopelessly overpriced tenement slums where the young professional classes of London shiver, while trying to get a job in various industries, all of which I keep being told are "competitive". A friend of ours from uni jacked in his job at a corporate law firm to become a plumber. He says its easier to get jobs and you earn a ton of money. "Plus enjoying the well-earned slumber of manual labour," he added, gleefully. But I am no good with my hands. Meanwhile, everywhere I look I'm required to take a massive paycut because I haven't any experience in the field. I thought this was the day and age you could career-change, a notion of total bullshit as far as I can tell.

In the interim, I have been forced to move back in with my mother. I hate it, almost as much as she does. I love London, it is my hometown. Sometimes I get so frustrated, as yet another flat goes, or yet another job is filled before even the application deadline. You begin to get irrational. I was born here - it seems injust that I cannot afford to live here, and can't find work here, that despite having worked hard at my education and at my career I am back living at home. I know how absurd that is, but it actually gets quite emotional, almost personal. Being born in London, I realise, gives me no entitlement whatsoever, but as it stands I simply can't see a way of staying here longterm. It's simply too expensive to have a comfortable quality of life.

But now we have a Conservative Mayor, I'm sure it'll be all better. Oh, wait...Conservative....no, no, it's just going to get worse. Edinburgh it is!

The X-Files Starter Guide

The key thing with The X-Files is not to worry about understanding it. Jump right in, wherever. If the mytharc makes any sense to you, then all power to you, but I watched the series for ten years and never got the hang of it, and I still love it. My favourite episodes are the ones where no prior knowledge is remotely needed. The TV series hit such highs that completely raised the bar for writing for all television shows that followed. My personal favourites are mainly the ones with humour, I must admit, but that's probably because they are easier to rewatch.

MY TOP 5 EPISODES:

1. "Small Potatoes" Series 4. Hilarity ensues after five babies in a small town are born with tails. Includes a shippy scene that nearly blew my brain when it first broadcast, that's how into the Mulder/Scully relationship I was.

2. "Bad Blood" Series 5. The same story told from each of their POVs. Yes, like that episode of Dawson's Creek. But so much better! Scully gets a laugh, Mulder sings "Shaft" and Luke Wilson guest stars. It's a cracker.

3. "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas" Series 6. A couple of ghosts drive Mulder and Scully to murder and suicide. Funnier than it sounds, if only for the scene where Mulder walks into a brick wall.

4. "Pusher" Series 3. Freak of the week who can control people via mind control. Creepy because he only controls their bodies, so they know what they're doing but can't stop. The most skin-crawling game of Russian roulette ever.

5. "Squeeze" Series 1. Freak of the week who has an encore later. He crawls into houses through tiny gaps and eats livers. As you do.

And this list doesn't even include Dreamland, Eve, Syzygy, Paper Hearts, Quagmire, War of the Coprophages, Chinga and, of course, The Truth.

ONES TO AVOID

1. Teso dos Bichos - some nonsense about a South American artefact blahblahblah. Awful.

2. Musings of the Cigarette Smoking Man - Honestly, I haven't seen this for so long I can't even remember why I don't like it. Just boring, I think. Possibly something to do with JFK.

3. Kaddish - Unremittingly depressing.

4. Deadalive - Just ridiculous.

5. William - Needlessly confusing.

KEY CHARACTERS

FOX MULDER

Firstly, his name really is Fox. It's not a stupid nickname. The names in The X-Files are sometimes more interesting than the plots (cf "Dakota Whitney" in "I Want to Believe", who sounds like a contestant from "American Idol", not an FBI agent). Former FBI profiler, did postgrad at Oxford. He makes the eating of sunflower seeds sexy. Gave up a glowing FBI career for a less-than-glowing FBI career, stuck in a basement. His quest is for "the truth", which mainly stems from his unfortunate obsession with his long-since vanished sister, Samantha (possibly alien abducted, possibly arranged by her father. Possibly cloned to breed alien killer bees. Possibly not. Possibly dead. Possibly not. Certainly has a weird hold on her brother.)

The original truth he is seeking is about her disapperance (arguably), since then it has become a search for any random truth, until you want to take the word "truth" and shove it down his gorgeous throat. His alleged father, Bill, was as crazy as him and involved in the Syndicate. His mother appeared to be normal, but was involved with the Cigarette Smoking Man. All in all, Mulder's dysfunction is both nature and nurture.

There was a point in the late-90s where it seemed that Buffy Summers and Mulder died and were resurrected on alternate weeks. This was because David Duchovny decided he didn't want to be a regular anymore, and in an excellent example of Chris Carter's tendency to embrace the counter-intuiative, rather than making up a logical storyline to explain this (Mulder really dead/Mulder really gone), he kept making shit up on the fly. He should have jettisoned Mulder, upon sober reflection, though I freely admit at the time I lived from week to week hoping he would show up.

DANA SCULLY
Scully was reasonably normal at the start, having quit medicine to join the FBI. She is brought in to bring clarity of fact to the X-Files, a task she spectacularly fails at. For the first few series, she tended to be out the room whenever crazy shit went down, to maintain her mantra of "Mulder, the scientific facts can't be argued with". After an alien abduction, giving birth to a baby/alien hybrid (or possibly a Mulder/Scully hybrid, it's never clear) despite having been sterilised by aliens previously, bringing people back from the dead, witnessing shapeshifting, being given alien nose cancer and many other things, she is still surprisingly close-minded. She has her own "truth", which is Catholicism. Mostly she goes around and wipes up Mulder's mess after him, because she loves him. She has a totally horrendous few years at the end of the series, but it's ok because Gillian Anderson is a superb crier.

Mulder may or may not be the father of Scully's son, William. To be honest, I was so confused by the time William was born, Scully may or may not be the mother. Either way, William is another example of a Chris Carter Flogging the Dead Horse school of storytelling, eventually mercifully dumped on some random farmers who have no idea what they're getting themselves into. Mulder refers to William as his son, though.

Scully had her own Family Issues (apart from what species her son is). She constantly needed to prove herself her naval father (played by General Hammond from SG-1!), had a grouchy brother, and had dramatics when her sister, Melissa, met the fate of All Who Know Mulder and/or Scully Well. The Scullys are nowhere near as interesting as the Mulders, by virtue of being relatively down to earth.

ASSISTANT DIRECTOR WALTER SKINNER
Mulder and Scully's direct boss, and consequently more than earns his pay cheque every week. He is a god amongst men, originally mostly confined to an office, the raison d'etre for which was to have the door to it bashed down on a weekly basis by Mulder/Scully bursting in demanding for help or advice. In later years he got out more though and saved their skin in a more active manner. Uncomfortably close relationship with the Cigarette Smoking Man, admittedly, but all in all a Good Egg. A man torn between pressures from the shadowy Syndicate, pressures from the government to shut Mulder up and pressures from his loyalty to Mulder as well as his own sense of morality, he chooses the Light Side every time, because he is just that awesome. Well, every time apart from that time when....er, never mind that. He's a good guy, who sometimes does the wrong things for the right reasons, let's say.

CIGARETTE SMOKING MAN
Key figure of the Syndicate, which knows aliens are going to colonize earth in 2012, fuelled by aforementioned bees and black oil, or something, it's really hard to say because I hated the mytharc so much I never understood it. The Syndicate plans to create alien/hybrid babies, possibly, an example of which may be William Scully, possibly, or Samantha Mulder, possibly. Good mate of Bill Mulder's, until he kills him. Keeps an eye on Mulder and constantly attempts to discredit him, possibly. He's Very, Very, Very Bad, is behind Scully's abduction amongst many other things. He is the face of the conspiracy to keep alien activity on the QT. Hangs out with Krycek, a sexy devil who sometimes works with, sometimes against Mulder, and sometimes even in the FBI, sometimes in the Syndicate but mostly for himself. The CSM is the dad of Agent Jeffrey Spender, (an irritant who takes over The X-Files at one of the several points it is closed over the years), and one or two others which are only revealed in the finale.

The Ex-Files: I Want To Believe You Can Do Better

Chris Carter is really extraordinary. He has displayed exceptional talent at various times in his career, as director, writer and producer. It is, of course, the curse of the showrunner that every show, eventually, runs its course. Naturally showrunners make mistakes too. And inevitably they burn out.

What makes Chris Carter really amazing is not a lack of talent, a burnout or even too many mistakes. Chris Carter built an absolute gem in "The X-Files", but at every possible opportunity he presses the self-destruct button. He doesn't make too many mistakes, he makes just one and then runs with it until the show is nearly in the ground, yet keeps enough quality around him to drive the viewer wild. The final couple series of "The X-Files" made people run mad not because they were shit, but because the potential for it to be good was palpable. The awful mytharc was infuriating because it could have been so much better. The cringingly bad "freak of the week" stories were so cringeworthy because they were up against episodes that were quite literally the best things on television. In effect, Chris Carter puts together the bad and the good in such close proximity that one feels like a teacher observing a student flunk their exams despite having aced their coursework.

I could not have approached "I Want to Believe" with more good-will, even though every review tried to discourage me from this. Mulder and Scully are old friends of mine that I haven't seen for a while (except on my copious DVDs). And actually, it is not a bad film. It is just not an especially good one. It is, in truth, an average thriller. There is very little of the paranormal in it, and while I massively appreciate the non-mytharc nature of it (I truly believe I would have run screaming from the cinema if I had heard the word "colonisation"), a little more of it being an actual X-File as opposed to a somewhat grisly earthbound, albeit odd, crime. Anyway, the whole thing takes place in a desolate Frozen North which is allegedly West Virginia, but is of course Canada. Mulder and Scully, like the audience, are older, wiser and sadder. The humour has pretty much evaporated, as of course has the steamy sexual tension, replaced with "My God, I love you but you drive me CRAZY!" tension familiar from every adult relationship (or is that just me?) It's not as charming as the TV show at its best, but then this isn't Clinton-era America, this is post-9/11 when paranoiacs don't need to be looking to the sky to feed their obsessions. Happily, there is a throwback to happier days as the villains include Russians, the traditional scurge of Mulder and Scully.

But the cinema was empty, almost literally. We had booked in advance, and there was most seriously no need. Everyone went to see The Dark Knight instead, which is a superb film, but I haven't the warmth of feeling for it that I have for The X-Files. Where's the loyalty?! As we sat there, Monkey pointed out that the kids of today probably don't even remember the X-Files, and the film certainly seems to accept that the people watching it will be of a certain age doing so from nostalgia for happier days. The X-Files has gone from being the crazy kid to the dignified veteran.

This must be rectified at once. Fresh viewing blood is needed!

Can I Just Say...

I freaking told you so.

Poor people.

The Downward Spiral: When Yellow Cars Are Interesting

I love Top Gear. My love for it knows no bounds, and is equalled only by my love for James May, who is very likely the most adorable man on television, and who I am just dying to rescue from Bully Clarkson. James is a man who says "bloody Nora" when under pressure, for heaven's sake. Or when shoved by his colleague into a river full of crocodiles responds with: "Such an insufferable oaf." Such men are NOT easy to find these days, people. Not easy at all.

James is undoubtedly the love of my life (my crushes are almost always characterised by the object of my attention's inability to brush their hair), but I like the programme for other reasons also. It is difficult not to love a show that thinks turning a Toyota truck into a boat and driving it across the English Channel is a good idea. Or that thinks firing a Mini off a ski-jump is worth it. Or strikes its presenters cars with lightning, just for the hell of it. Or takes off the roof of a people carrier and takes it through Woburn Safari Park.

It is hilariously funny, but also applicable to every day life. For example, whenever Monkey's notoriously unreliable Rover breaks down for the fifth time in six hours, one or both of us will exclaim: "Which slovenly Midlander built this?!" in the words of Jeremy Clarkson himself. Or, when one's SatNav has let one down yet again, who doesn't mutter "Permission to say 'oh, cock'"?

I'm going to own up right now and say that I've been watching Top Gear for years and years without paying the slightest attention to the car reviews. Top Gear appeals to two sorts of people: boys who know their shit about cars (Monkey is one of these) and who care about Ford GTs, Bugatti Veyrons and God knows what else. It also appeals to people like me, who know nothing about supercars, but I like watching three grown men acting like they're down the pub except on a £100,000 budget. A cameraman I worked with a few months ago told me he had stopped working for Top Gear. "If I wanted to work on scripted drama, I'd work on scripted drama," he said. Top Gear is only getting more scripted, especially since Richard Hammond's crash. But there are still beautiful moments, when you can tell something unexpected has happened and it's handled brilliantly. And then there's the moments where Jeremy Clarkson finds something genuinely funny and laughs. Clarkson's smile and laugh is an amazing thing, where his face reverts to the face of a five-year-old cheeky boy and you feel for the first time you may be able to like him.

But anyway. Cars are on my mind.

My first car was a Renault Clio which was not so much unreliable as a fucking death trap, going well beyond a joke and out the other side. Being only a year old, Renault finally took it off my hands because they couldn't work out what was wrong with it and felt, on the whole, that they should try and find out for the safety of future generations. As far as I was concerned, what was wrong with it was that it would randomly cut out at above 60mph, I'd lose everything and have to ditch the fucking thing. My second car was a Citroen C2 (in a hideous colour) that I wrote off ignomoniously on the A9, that particular graveyard of vehicular transport claiming yet another victim. My boyfriend at the time was particularly annoyed partly because he'd been asleep at the time so had woken up somewhat suddenly in the side of a tree and partly because I'd skidded on black ice, despite there being a hundred signs warning me of this very hazard (he was from Inverness and used to black ice, I was from North London and wasn't). In fairness, the signs didn't warn me that there'd be a BMW in my way, too.

After that calamity I took a year off driving and finally bought a new Volkswagen Polo. I adore it. I love it. If I could bring it into the house, feed it dinner and tuck it up in bed every night I would. But that was three years ago, and since my finances are somewhat precarious, I've decided that with my savings I need to get rid of my adored Polo and buy something else. I probably don't really need a car, living in London and all, but I want one and that's really that. I'm no petrolhead - I know next to nothing about the mechanics and couldn't locate the engine with a metal detector, but I absolutely love cars. I love them. I love driving, and I don't want to be without a car.

So I have started really paying attention. Today on a ten minute drive I saw five yellow cars. Five yellow cars! Yellow cars are rare! Why were there suddenly five all in Kentish Town High Street? Most bizarre. I am not going to buy a yellow car, though. That is pretty much certain.

It does turn out I have been listening to Top Gear all along. I am flirting with the idea of a Toyota Aygo. This notion is half based on its Top Gear-proven skillz at Car Football (and heaven knows West Hampstead can sometimes turn into a massive game of Car Football), and partly based on the fact it sponsors Hollyoaks. I have also been looking at a Fiat Panda, based entirely on the fact James May owns one. I don't much care for the colours, though....

My God. I'm turning into a boring person. I'll be on about motorways next.

Speaking of which, the A9....

A Warning to Those Who Are Following: Don't Go Into Television

There is no greater joy than quitting a job. The term "resigning" is misleading. There is no resignation about it. It is grabbing your future in your hands, looking up to the heavens and shouting "by God, I can do better!" There is nothing resigning about that. But that is the image behind the term "I resigned."

This I did today. As of the end of August (and the end of my current contract), I have decided to leave television, the only career I have ever known and an industry that thousands are bashing down the door to get into. Well, I say to them, let me hold that door for you, because you are more than welcome to it.

I do not dispute that my life is richer for the time I have spent in TV. The people I have worked with have been universally extraordinary -even the ones that were monstrous (and still are monstrous) to work with and shatteringly terrifying and mortifying and gut-wrenchingly ball-breakingly awful have been fascinating and I wouldn't change having known them. I have been to places, seen things and done things that I simply would never have had the opportunity for, were I not in the vicinity of a camera crew at the time. I have been physically sick from stress, I have cried with joy and I have had howled with despair. In short, my time in television has been a nightmare, but my God it has not been boring. I will look back upon the projects with the certain knowledge that I am a fuller person for having done it. As my name flashes by on various credits in the future, I may dawdle for a moment in reminisciences. Perhaps I will ponder what may have been, had I been prepared to give everything I had to the career. I will wonder if dropping out was the right thing to do.

But, I am done. I am so thoroughly reconciled to this fact now that I'm not sure how I'm going to finish this project. I have been thinking this through for six months, fannying around and listening to the advice of people screaming at me that my job is the best in the world. Well, it isn't. I want a job that is permenant and that will pay me for my holidays. I want a job where a budget isn't constantly being busted. Basically, I want a job where I don't drive myself as close as I hope to ever come to total hysteria, and all for 57-odd minutes of telly for people to watch while eating their toast. My friends will still be in the industry - I live with a cameraman, for God's sake - but I'm out of here, in search of normality.

Work may well set you free. But unemployment is going to set me free.

The Bill: "His name's Dmitry..we think he's Russian"

If it's Wednesday, Smithy must be having a gun pulled on him. Dale "Tragedy Magnet" Smith is on the case once more in search of emotional and professional disaster and heaven knows he's never disappointed on that quest.

Years of boundless dangers faced and disposed of harmlessly means that concerns for Smithy's long-term living status is not intense. For this reason, The Bill employed several strategies to hold interest, the most bizarre of these being the uncomfortably good surveillence (everyone in the station watching Smithy eating his tea) and Neil's previously AWOL heart not only putting in an appearance but growing twenty sizes a second, in direct ratio to Max proving himself to be ever more callow, cold and, in fact, much as Neil used to be back in the day. (When is Neil going to get a good storyline again? It's been years!) Should you still be bored by Smithy's ongoing will-he-won't-he-be-held-at-gunpoint-again-one-more-time, you can entertain yourself by wondering what the hell the DCI does all day. Best job on telly, no doubt about it. Saunter in, put in a couple of lines of dialogue with furrowed brow, saunter out again. He's the new Castillo!

Stevie, ill-advisedly throwing her cap at Smithy the Romantically Cursed One, does not know that with death she dices. He's hot, but by God he's dangerous for one's health. Unfortunately, they have the chemistry of water and oil. Smithy's expression after she kissed him was nothing short of horror. Besides, if he should be getting with anyone, get with Gina! For one thing, I believe she's they only one strong enough to fight off the hellhounds that hunt down anyone who so much as flirts with the poor guy. At least they had some scenes together this time around.

For Smithy's next trick, perhaps he could jump out of a plane without a parachute above shark-infested waters five hundred miles from the nearest landfall. He would still emerge a week later in Sun Hill with a photogenic temporary scar and a bundle of issues to project onto the next girlfriend.

Drumroll, Please

Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls and those of you that have yet to decide...It's Inside Soap Awards! Woot! Back in my late not particularly lamented job this time of year was extremely exciting, mainly because it was an opportunity to see if all the hassle had paid off. Inside Soap is like a grubby younger sister to the British Soap Awards' mouthy older sister with all the bling. For one thing, you have to love an awards where you are reminded to read all the nominations before voting. Bless. Anyway, now that such malarkeys can be enjoyed in their camp splendour without the concerns of politics or personal interest (much), one spent a most happy hour or so with Evie agonising over our choices.

Below are mine and Evie's choices. In September, none of them will actually win. Proven pattern.

Best Actor - Not much fighting . Our vote went to David from Corrie. If someone can explain to me what Harold Bishop was even nominated for, I'd be grateful. His inclusion makes even less sense than Justin from Hollyoaks, who has done bugger-all except nancying around on ice for months.

Best Actress - Great deal of squabbling between Steph from Neighbours and Tanya from EastEnders. Tanya got it eventually, mostly because I loved the actress on No Angels, so I know she can act damn well, even if she has no reason to bother on EastEnders. I think Louise from Hollyoaks must have been nominated as some sort of ironic joke.

Best Couple - Agonies. Absolute agonies. Instinctive loyalty to Karl and Susan from Neighbours, but the sentimental vote went to Max and Steph from Hollyoaks, even though I actually hated them as a couple. Which is why public voting is such bollocks.

Best Young Actor - Tom from Hollyoaks. No arguments.

Funniest Performance - Er, went for Michaela from Hollyoaks in the end. Don't particularly find anyone in soapland intentionally hilarious. Ever.

Best Bad Boy - Continued with the David Platt love. Phil Mitchell isn't a bad boy, he's an irritating middle-aged yob. David is a psychopathic youngster. Them's the difference.

Best Bitch - Dithered for ages between Mercedes McQueen and Clare Cunnigham, before deciding on Mercedes. Clare's history, and anyway her final act was kidnapping Katy, which wasn't so much bitchy as a public service and worthy of a mention on the honours' list.

Best Newcomer - We skipped this one. No one of any interest. Kieron in Hollyoaks? Er, no. Also, why was Tony from Corrie there? I remember him in Casualty in the dim and distant recesses of my childhood memory. A newcomer he ain't.

Sexiest Female - As two straight girls, we didn't feel in a position to judge. I know when some women are attractive, but to be honest none of this harem were "knock-your-socks-off, -good-God-she'd-turn-me" sexy. A straight male colleague plumped for Louise from Hollyoaks, this was vetoed due to her stationary facial features, and we made an executive decision in favour of Libby from Neighbours, just coz.

Sexiest Male - This, if you like, is our area of expertise. No Max or OB? Well, whoever we picked would have to be the third sexiest male. Spirited discussion between Rhys from Hollyoaks (slightly fey bad boy charm), Carl from Emmerdale (businessman charm) and Phil from The Bill, er, sorry, Jack from EastEnders (just bad boy charm). In the end went for Phil/Jack/Whoever he is. Evie acted as if I was some kind of social parah for finding Carl attractive - which I do - but I think whoever nominated Dan from Corrie is more touched in the head. Dan?! Also confusing is Sean from EastEnders.

Best Storyline - God, the pain of choosing between David chucking Gail down the stairs on Corrie and Clare creating vehicular mayhem on Hollyoaks. In the end went for Clare, since it doesn't matter anyway as that shrew Bianca will scoop it for her return. Where was the OB exit? What with the tie-in with The Sound of Music it was an eyeball-bustingly amazing cross-promotional, multi-platform whatthefuckever.

Best-Dressed Soap Star - This was a real bobbydazzler, since there weren't even options. How do I know how well-dressed they are? I'm not THAT sad, for God's sake. Where's the multiple choice? Tempted to go for Max from Hollyoaks. Because God-damn it, it's not like he's been nominated for anything else.

Best Drama: The Bill. Neeeext!

Best Soap: This is where we fell out majorly. Evie, quite rightly, pointed out that Corrie is the best soap. It really is. She also pointed out that a vote not for Corrie makes it more likely EastEnders will win. Also really true. So why did I go for Hollyoaks? Sentimental, I guess.

We managed to resist the temptation to enter the draw for tickets to the awards. We don't want to spoil the illusion of glamour, do we?

Due to our combined distress over recent Chester-based events, and a standing irritation with Corrie's deserved if annoying "better than thou" attitude, this year things have rather focused on Hollyoaks and EastEnders, to the total detriment of Emmerdale. I kind of wish we'd gone for Carl now for sexiest male. Still, never mind. It killed an hour.

So long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehn, Adieu

Hollyoaks Watch:

The Sob Count this week was 5, which considering I only caught 2 episodes must be some sort of record. Things that made me cry:

1. Steph throwing the stuff in Max's grave.

2. After the harrowing experience of Max's funeral, OB putting on the DVD of Max/OB/Tom happy days was enough to make me cry because of seeing Max.

3. OB saying goodbye to Tom - why the gods of Hollyoaks, why?! I know Tom's a great little actor and you want him to stick around, but NO. He belongs with OB. This is madness!

4. OB seeing Max in the doorway to Drive and Buy as he left - leaving behind Max, Tom, Hollyoaks and me, Goddamnit.

5. The saddest thing I have ever seen on television, and I say that without exaggeration and including the time Lucy died on ER: OB walking away, cue the old school Hollyoaks theme tune from waaaay back in the dim recesses of my adolescence, and a montage of Max/OB classics, right back to when they (and me, come to that) were schookids over the credits. Wailed. Wailed. INCONSOLABLE.

Monkey has now threatened to revoke my Hollyoaks watching rights. In this demand, he is aware he is forfeiting his Emmerdale watching rights, but I think he thinks it's worth it just to stop me sobbing into my chenin blanc and regalling him with tales of my mispent youth in the company of OB and Max. As he mopped up after me this evening (and I actually did sob so much over the closing theme music that I did that whole gulping thing you do when you're genuinely in distress and not just a bit sad), he remarked that he thought I felt more strongly about the characters in Hollyoaks than I did about real people. I think he may be right. Does that make me a sociopath? I think maybe it does.

Of course, the laugh count is at 1, as well. Steph, holding a shoebox of photos by Max's grave. Darren joins her.

Darren: What's in the box?

Steph [confused]: Max.

Gods of Hollyoaks - you didn't grant my wish of Tom and OB happily ever after. Please grant my wish of Steph and Darren happily ever after. I know they're stepsiblings, but everyone knows that in Hollyoaks shit like that is only temporary anyway. Please...they're great.

Well anyway. In honour of the occasion I have finally (after a decade in thier company) learned Max and OB's real names.

Dear Matt Littler and Darren Jeffries: I salute you. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Waiting for the Other Boot to Drop

I already know I am going to cop it at work tomorrow. This is a certainty, because tonight I spectacularly failed to bend time and space, so have been unable to conjure a necessary document hither from our Yorkshire friends, a document that my director has decided he needs by Monday 9am. The injustice is overwhelming, because my ears are still ringing from the shouting session I received this afternoon over this very issue. If people don't answer their phones, they don't answer their phones. Short of jumping in a car and driving up there, all I can do is leave messages on this lady's mobile and landline and email her. What else? Yodelling? God, I hate TV sometimes with this ridiculous pressure all the time over a document which will take up a nanosecond of time on screen and which no one will even notice.

Perhaps that attitude is why I will never be any good as a director, so long as I live. Which begs the question - why am I even in this crappy industry?

Of course my bad mood is more likely caused by the fact I burned myself on my straighteners on Monday, and have had curly hair all week because I am distinctly put off GHDs now. The blister on my finger says to me: "The fuck are you doing to your hair?" Unfortunately my mirror says to me: "Straighten your God-damned hair, you look like Wurzel Gummage."

The Grass is Greener

Popped to Wimbledon today after work, where Iceman is allegedly 'working'. Iceman, 'working' as he does in Sport, works briefly, in short spurts, and usually when he's covering golf, which he despises. At all other times, Iceman is not working. Beetling around Wimbledon with a crew pointing cameras at hapless, if eager, members of the public asking what they think about Andy Murray, is not working. "Yeah, but it's not the football," he accurately points out. He is getting to go to Beijing, though, so frankly he should put up and shut up. Or is it shut up and put up?

Anyway, one of Iceman's incredibly arduous tasks requires him to keep an eye out for celebrities. A lot of this can be done while snaffling various high-fat snacks in the coffin-like box on Centre Court and keeping half an eye on the Royal Box. Some more can be done while snaffling high-fat snacks in the production office. Even more can be done while snaffling over-price salty food in the canteen. But just sometimes the poor lad has to donder around Wimbledon vaguely. Tough, tough work. I joined him on one of his turns around the grounds, and spotted no one, being a deplorably poor celebrity spotter at the best of times. I did see Tim Henman briefly, but somehow, despite his fame, we both agreed that actually it's like seeing someone who lived next door to you years ago - you may not know him personally, but you have vague wafts of fellow feeling rather than starry eyed awe.

Tough job. My only workplace connection with Wimbledon is the hilarious live blogging from the BBC. Love it.

Anthem for Doomed Youth: Hollyoaks

"Are you trying to come to terms with the loss of a loved one?" intoned the announcer at the end of Hollyoaks, before giving a number which would take away the pain. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am trying to come to terms with the loss of a loved one, but since it's the same loved one that the population of Hollyoaks is trying to come to terms with the loss of, I think I would get shortshrift.

Even for a soap, Hollyoaks exists in a state of near-hysteria on a regular basis. It seems to have finally, ultimately driven me to the same state. I can accept crying at Max's death. I grew up with him, I've known him since I was about fourteen, and have spent half an hour in his company every day for ten years. Then I cried on Monday after OB told Tom that the pain would never go away, and after Darren, Tony, Jack, Mandy and all the old school sat around with the silent impression that one of the group was most decidedly missing, which mirrored how I felt. Then I cried today when Tony left a bunch of flowers where Max died telling him he would make sure Tom would always know how much he loved him. I cried for Tony, people! I've hated him since day one! Christ alone knows what I will be like when the funeral rolls around, I am NOT going to be okay.

"The world doesn't revolve around the McQueens and your latest Jeremy Kyle scandal!" bawled Tony, to which I said "hear hear", this wholehearted agreement again a definite first in Hollyoaks history. I appreciate the theory: slicing in scenes of John Paul/priest (yawn) and Niall (yawn) and the fucking students (quadruple yawn), but in truth, this is MAX. Max is dead! I don't care about them! I don't care about Steph, really, either, because as she said to OB "I didn't really know [Max] at all." She didn't. She wasn't there for the old craziness when everyone was young! When Mr C was alive! When Max and OB were at school! When Tony was the annoying older guy! When Max had a crush on Mandy! When they went on holiday with Jambo and...Well, anyway, Steph was only there later so Max could have his faux happy ending, in much the same way Summer was for OB. And to be honest, while I am struggling with this, and while Mandy, Tony, Darren and most of all OB are in hell when I've known them forever, do you really expect me to care for the wretched damn students and their wacky hijinks, or the priest that came three minutes ago with the sole purpose to begin an affair with a teenage boy? Because, I don't. Maybe in a week, but not right now.

Of course, this cuts to the nub of the matter. Hollyoaks isn't for 24-year-olds who remember watching the first ever episode and being gobsmacked by the fact Natasha had a mobile phone. This is not the audience they are aiming for. I was 12 then, and it's 12-18-year-olds they want now, which is cool. Most people I know have stopped watching by now. And now Max is gone, and I dare say OB will be gone again soon enough (please, to the gods of Hollyoaks, let him take Tom with him. Tom can't lose OB too, I'll weep yet AGAIN), maybe it's time to say goodbye too. It is, I think, a great sign of the times that a colleague and I spent an hour of a meeting today discussing the comparable merits of Hollyoaks and One Tree Hill. Fond as I am of One Tree Hill, Hollyoaks will hold the dearest place in my heart forever. I grew up with it, and now I've grown out of it.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

What a dramatic day.

It began at six o'clock this morning with Monkey crashing around the bedroom. He seemed perfectly convinced that I had, for some dastardly reason, stolen his cagoule. Nothing could be further from the case. As a rule, I don't go to places where I need a cagoule, unless accompanied (read: dragged) by Monkey. I explained this as best I could through my hangover and hayfever. Monkey needed said cagoule, because he was going to Glastonbury or, as he insists on calling it aggrivatingly, "Glasto". Eventually, he stormed off before I remembered I actually had taken the cagoule on a shoot about six months ago to Iceland. Ooops. Monkey is likely cold and wet right now, but probably high too so I'm not feeling too sorry for him. Also, I don't feel sorry for anyone going to Glastonbury, because they are clearly so deranged as to be well beyond any help or solace sympathy could offer them.

Anyway, then, at work, my friend and I became convinced our exec had placed adverts for our jobs on Productionbase. Immediately it became a question of whose job it was. "Mine, definitely," moaned the lovely Frosty. "Mine," I whimpered. Turns out is was neither. "I thought you could use some help," said my exec, sweetly, though nervously because he's as socially dysfunctional as the mob at Glastonbury. "You both looked a little swamped." Actually, we both looked a little guilty, having drunk ourselves nearly to death in the Stewart at lunch in anticipation of near future unemployment.

But the worst was the last. Arriving home to a joyfully empty flat, I made dinner and a mess I didn't feel the need to tidy up, and put on Hollyoaks. Yesterday it reminded me why I have loved it for so long, by introducing a new variation on the old "interrupting the wedding" chestnut by having a madly distraught mother interrupting the ceremony by yelling at the priest: "You hypocrite! All this time, you've been having sex with my son!" Golden. And Mandy, who I couldn't be happier to see, had the most fantastic expression of glee, mixed with: "Well, obviously. What more do you expect from that family?"

But tonight Hollyoaks had an ace up its sleeve. From the start of this episode, you could tell something was about to kick off. 'Max and Steph: happily ever after' read the banner outside the Dog. Doom! DOOM! "This is what it is like to be a winner!" exclaimed OB. Doom! "I think this is what they call the perfect day," mused Max, as he and OB (YAAAAY) had a love-in. Doom! By the time he was knocked over in a deeply unconvincing stunt as Niall randomly run him right over, it was almost a relief. Until OB threw himself on Max's prone body, as poor Tom watched yet another relative expire. I'm beginning to think Clare was onto something, Tom is the common factor in all these premature deaths. Anyway, steeled as I was for this disaster, watching OB cradle Max in his arm ("I love you, mate," said Max, with his dying breath), I lost it completely. Yes, I cried at Hollyoaks. What are you going to do about it? I grew up with them! "What am I going to do without my best mate?" sobbed OB. What am I going to do with you two?! My only criticism (apart from with the, you know, dying and stuff) was that Mandy and Tony weren't there. Steph threw herself on him, of course, but somehow I was aching for some old-school OB, Max, Tony, Mandy, even Cindy facetime as a goodbye thing to our boys. The camera pulled away, and there's Max stone dead, surrounded by OB, Tom and Steph. It was devastatingly sad. Back when we were fourteen, I never thought it would end this way...

Monkey rang shortly afterwards to rave about fucking Glasto, home of the crazed who like wearing the same boots for three days straight and not sleeping in a cozy bed even when you're hangover, and the noise and the cold and the wet and the mud and the awful toilets and the overpriced booze and food and the crowd and the moody mob and I hate hate hate hate Glastonbury. With a passion. Almost as much as I hate Lauren Laverne. Which is a lot. "Watch it later!" said Monkey. "I hate Lauren Laverne," I said . "Oh, fuck off," he said, "and why do you sound like you've been crying?" I explained the Hollyoaks situation. There was a pause.

"Does this mean we don't have to watch anymore?" he asked.

NO.

A Hulk with a Heart

"Aww, he's SO SWEET!" Is not a likely (or probably even an intended) reaction to The Incredible Hulk, who, incredible or not, is, ultimately, a hulk. But what a hulk! I was dragged thither to the cinema against my will because superhero films aren't really my trunk of marbles. When they take themselves seriously I find them pretentious in the extreme and when they don't take themselves seriously I find them silly in the extreme. Occasionally I can put my brain on ice for a couple of hours if James Marsters or Christian Bale are buffed up, but let's face it, in those cases it isn't the film that I'm enjoying.

"The Incredible Hulk" differs enormously. For one thing, the hero has to ask the love interest for his bus fare, which prompted the above exclaimation to the grave embarrassment of Monkey. Also, the hero/love interest relationship is just nothing short of adorable. There is a real heart to the film, until you are genuinely involved in the plot, such as it is, about the search for a cure. Maybe what makes it different is that the superhero power is a curse he's trying to rid himself of, rather than flaunting it. (Dear Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent, if you want normal lives so badly, for fuck's sake stop dressing up and running around your respective cities mouthing off. Yours, Cordelia).

Of course, the last 20 minutes or so goes superhero film and there's gratuitous banging of CGI skulls into pavements and it all gets rather loud and disinteresting, but for the best of two hours it had me on a plate. It helps that it had Ed Norton in the lead, an actor not given to silliness as a rule, and it helped that Tim Roth was the bad guy, another actor for whom vainglory is not an associated vice. Liv Tyler battled against a horrible hair cut to deliver an extremely sympathetic take on the usually wholly unsympathetic role of love interest. In fact, I would recommend it as a date movie. It's really very unconventionally romantic. And very sweet.

Why Owning a Car in London is Bad Idea (leaving aside the congestion charge)

"Friday 13th is a lot of shit," said Monkey, being neither a loved one of Tim Russert, nor a non-swimmer in China.

Of course, to blame such disasters on Friday 13th is nonsense. Plenty of catastrophes occur every day. Coming back to one's car in a supermarket carpark at 1am (what, you've never used supermarket carparks for nights out parking?) and finding it so badly smashed into that the driver's door won't shut is a good example. Except that was 1am on...Friday 13th. That thought didn't occur to me as I drove home with four drunken friends in the car, holding my door shut all the way. The consequences - the loss of my no-claims etc etc is actually mortifying to think of. The injustice is overwhelming.

I wish I could say that I handle such hiccups well and with good grace. But I don't.

Whoever did it, I hate your cowardly guts and I hope someone does it to you. Soon.

Televisual Schadenfreude: Making Me Feel Glad I'm Not You

The writer's strike - apart from putting me out of not only a job but a visa, so as I sit back in my flat in London, thanks a lot guys, it's not as though I was enjoying the LA weather anyway - has had a troubling effect. Season 2007/8 proved nasty, brutish and short for many of the American series. The wave of sadistic misery and violence that accompanied the season finale period is almost frightening. I mean, season finales always have a dash of that, but the shortened season and general air about the industry has had some decidedly unsunny consequences.

Supernatural stands out. Having spent weeks proclaiming how cool it would be if Dean actually did go to hell, when it came to the being torn apart by hellhounds and the impaling for eternity with meathooks, I began to rethink my position. Funnily enough, I think Dean was rethinking his position too. Jared Padelecki's insistence on crying in the most disagreeable way was the only thing stopping the tears in my ducts. It was horrible. That's the only word for it. Horrible to watch. Both the crying and the meathooks, I mean.

Meanwhile, on House, fuck knows what misery was brought upon the heads of fuck knows who, to the point where our soundman remarked that the dying girl, on the whole, was probably facing the most cheerful future. On Battlestar Galactica they were more rogered than usual, and on Bones they took the interesting decision to ditch the writers altogether and have the finale written by a prepubescent fangirl with the vaguest acquaintance with the art of storytelling. Charlie on Numb3rs decided that selling secrets - or something - to the Pakistanis was a good idea, based (I think) solely on the fact that his big brother didn't think it was a good idea. I once jumped off my shed based on that principle, but I was about seven, and Charlie is not only not seven, but is allegedly a genius. Anyway, so we left the family Eppes contemplating a future with a son in chains for treason. Elsewhere, Smallville, the Living Dead of television, continues it's wholly undeserved course to an 8th season. This one finished with the cast in their thirties and Lex and Clark fighting it out. People, this is now the Newer Adventures of Superman! KILL IT!

Even Pushing Daisies, the most remorseless source of unsolicitied felicity, cleanly broke my heart with poor old Chuck crying over her dead father who wasn't even her father, and the fact the love of her life can't touch her and so help me GOD if they don't find a way for Ned to give Digby a hug soon then I'm breaking down the fucking fourth wall and doing it myself. In fact, only CSI warmed my cockles by taking my long overdue advice and shooting Warrick. Hurrah! It only took eight fucking years!

So having spent weeks tramping around the USA with a crew being fed badly and depressed enormously by my television watching, I have returned home to find that Doctor Who, being both Smallville of British television, trundles on. Monkey had sweetly recorded the eps I had missed. "If you want my advice," he said, "skip to the end."

Saturday Night In With The Sad Gang

Two bottles of chardonnay, the television and a modest-sized bag of Mistrels. Thus runs Monkey and my Saturday night in.

The discussion began when I revealed that Bernard Cribbens, Imelda Staunton, Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer are my celebrity grandparents. My celebrity parents are Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry (shut up). We eventually decided (a bottle in, and brain-damaged by Britain's Got Talent) that Ant and Dec would make reasonable celebrity big brothers. At a stretch, I'd say Kate Winslet and Helena Bonham-Carter for big sisters. And then we began on celebrity boyfriends/girlfriends. As we reeled off names, both Monkey and I began to drink more and speak less, each lost in our own worlds.

"Fucking hell," said Monkey, as Pushing Daisies began and I commented quietly that actually, could we add Ned to my list (even though he actually reminds me strongly of a decidedly real ex-boyfriend of mine), "Fucking hell, we are lame."

He wasn't wrong. Monkey and I had our individual relationship supernovas in January, which means were are both now single and frankly a bit lonely. We are also both unhappy at work. Things have reached a crisis whereby Monkey has forsaken his lager and I have forsaken my gin so we can both drink wine every night, constantly, for maximum alcohol intake we have combined forces. You know things are bad when you have invitations to go out but can't quite be bothered. Why leave the sofa, when American Pie 3 is on?