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.