I find myself on this on this Friday morning quite utterly horrified at the state of Amy Winehouse. Why the fuck isn’t this woman in rehab? Or indeed, dead, because it can’t have escaped the nation’s notice that she is sporting the look of a cadaverous twig. Just look at the pontoon eyes, for a start.

I hold my hands up and admit that I harbour a salacious streak when it comes to celebsville. Guilty as charged, m’Lud. My friend George is of the opinion that ingesting this pig swill will rot my soul, but I don’t care: the more spotlight-hungry fools willing to make utter twunts of themselves (yes, you Jodie Marsh, I mean you), the better as far as I’m concerned. I love this shit so much I’ve even started moonlighting at Holy Moly.

But on a personal level, when I see photos of the drug ravaged mess that used to be Amy Winehouse (and in spite of what I enjoy doing in a professional mud-slinging capacity) it makes me uneasy. Deeply so.

I’m well aware that I’m just as bad as the next person. I read the websites, I buy the newspapers, hell I’m the bitch writing about it. And enjoying it too. But it doesn’t mean the irony is lost on me. There comes a point when even the most cynical of us begin to think it’s time to switch off the idiot box and amuse ourselves elsewhere.

Profound eh? Might have to lay off the 11am gins…

Now then. Since landing the job with the drinks cabinet and the boardroom (result), I have in the meantime been thrashing out the salary stuff (cringe). Result? Delayed start date. So to keep my fingers out the biscuit jar and the boredom porn off the box, I have managed to blag my way into super-wanky ad agency, Bartle Bogle Hegarty, for a spot of contract ‘copy writing’ (read arsing around smoking fags and drawling ‘daaaaahling’ at everyone from the tea boy to Mr Bogle).

This whole escapade is amusing for two reasons:

1) I am no copy writer. I don’t really know what this breed of being does, but I’m winging it to within an inch of my life. So far, not busted.

2) I’ve never been in such a litigious environment. All they talk about is getting the lawyers in. And believe you me, I shat myself when I read the T&Cs on my contract. Fucking hell, they’ll be after my grandmother’s boney bottom to have their pound of flesh if I don’t fulfill.

So far they’re buying my bullshit and I’m banking on being out by Wednesday, well before anyone notices I fucked up the Five website proofs.

It would seem a blogger does not an award-winning word wizard make.

I managed to sober up long enough to get a job offer last week. Hop, skip, etc.

It’s with a creative agency and it’s very exciting. I will be a pro blogger, would you believe. Given that I only started dicking around with this format a mere year ago, that’s not bad going.

The best bit? They have a massive booze cupboard in their board room. It is literally filled full of throat stripper. I had to do a ‘welcome to the company’ shot of sambuca last Friday.

Damn. I think I found my spiritual home.

I’m going to start off on a gin and tonic around 11am, then move onto a crisp white wine (perhaps a chilled Pinot) by 1pm. Then after that I’m sure a glass of fruity Merlot wouldn’t go amiss, before a strident march towards a large coffee accompanied by a port or three.

After this I may need a snooze, but I’ll set the alarm and crack straight on with a refreshing cider, before hitting the vodka and soda (with fresh lime squeezed in, not that cordial shit), before vomiting with gusto and starting all over again the following morning.

The question is how long until I’m skint, drinking dirty double strength lagers and weeing myself?

I laughed. I am going straight to hell: do not pass Go, do not collect £200.

Musicals make me cringe with embarrassment. On the odd occasion I have been forced into a theatre to watch one, I’m literally climbing the walls after 15 minutes.

It’s a phobia. I just can’t bear the forced exuberance and endless supplies of ballet-trained women trooping their turned-out duck feet across the stage.

To add to this cornucopia of wretchedness, I have also been known to cry quite freely at sad bits. I’m already on the edge emotionally, then fricking Billy Elliot starts dancing for his dead Mam and The German has to escort me from the dress circle.

So it was with this in mind, that I spotted a poster for the new Brief Encounter musical on an underground poster this morning.

I love that film. Black and white magic, it is. But do I dare ruin it all by going to see the musical? It’s advertised as buy-one-get-one-free tickets… will the inner gypo win out?

But what on earth does he think he’s doing 1.13 minutes into the video?