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!

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.

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."