Very occasionally James gets invited to comedy gigs and parties. Mostly we don't go. Usually I avoid these sorts of occasionas as much as possible, the social anxiety at having to make small talk with people who are mostly a) twats and b) on cocaine makes my hands feel like they are spraying sweat out of every pore. I subsequently spend the rest of the evening wishing I was at home with the cat on my lap drinking Twinings and watching Britain's Next Top Model. But a few weeks ago we got a shiny black envelope containing a VIP invitation to a gig at the O2 arena, and we just couldn't resist it's glossy embossed loveliness.
First off I would like to point out that three hours before setting out for the venue I knew it was a mistake. Good, we have that on the record. When we got to the venue the backstage area had the vibe of a slightly upmarket doctor's waiting room, albeit with a scattering of D-list celebs. Greg Rusedski was there, and that guy Marc Whatsisname who made puppy-eyes at Cerys Matthews on 'I'm a Celeb...' They were okay. I didn't mind them. The people I did mind were the nobodies. The people who work for the agencies, and the newspapers, and the promotors. Seriously, what is wrong with them? I mean, what's the deal here? Is this some sort of joke? How can they be so clueless and survive in a city like London?
Why do they talk so loudly? Have their ears become defective from listening to so much bullshit over the years that they have to shout into each other's faces like market traders to make themselves heard?
Do they live in a bubble? Or a house like in The Apprentice, or Big Brother, where they all sit around talking shit to each other all day and nodding sagely thinking it's completely reasonable and normal? Check out this overheard conversation:
Salon Selectives Girl 1: 'Who's that guy?' (points to man her mate has just been chatting to)
Salon Selectives Girl 2: 'Oh, he's from Uxbridge. Fwah Fwah Fwah!'
Salon Selectives Girl 1: (bemused) 'What?'
Salon Selectives Girl 2: 'It's hee-larious. I asked him where he was from. You know, like, where are you from? And he misunderstood and said Uxbridge'
Salon Selectives Girl 1: 'Ha ha *snort* Uxbridge. Ha ha *snort*
She asked the man where he was FROM? Geddit? Not from.
Nah. I don't get it.
Oh hang on...
Ah yes. I see what is happening here.
God. I am so glad I'm a teacher.
Yes, I know they're networking and making valuable contacts and all that other stuff that helps to put crap on my television and in my glossy magazines, but why aren't any of them normal?
Actually, the man actually answered her question more accurately than she'd wished. How can she take umbridge with that? Women like them make me want to rip out their extensions and curl them round their Hermes-scarf-adorned necks.