Say Cheese. Mean Cheese.

Well, if ever my friends and I needed a flashing neon light penetrating our consciousness with the slogan 'You are getting old' this was it.

It was Cordy's birthday. She's one of my favourite friends. She's as effervescent as a bottle of pop that's been all shook up. A group of us went out for dinner and then we danced to some ska. I say dance, because it makes us sound cool and I want you to think I am cool. Stood at the back getting pissed and talking to strangers is more apt. But less cool. But I've told you now. I stood at the back during a ska gig and ate Cordy's birthday cake while telling a Turkish girl she looked Polish. Less cool.

Cordy wanted to move on somewhere else for a change of scenery and as her loyal birthday celebrators, we happily obliged.

Next venue, a bar serving tea and warm rum. Both of which were ordered. That's right, it was nearly midnight and we were slipping.

I wanted to be on the best form I possibly could be for Cordy. She plays a blinder every time I see her, with her never ending eagerness to be awake. But I'd eaten a lot of cake and drunk a lot of gin. Cordy mentioned that she wanted to go to a nightclub. One we all knew would be inevitably packed full of sweaty trendy people getting their groove on. One where we wouldn't be able to hear each other, it would take ages to get to the bar and if we had any dreams about seats, we could keep on dreaming. Standing room only. Standing and dancing. And let's face it, I hadn't had enough gin.

I caught Cesca's eye. She was drinking tea. I was thinking it. She was thinking it, I could tell. I looked at Gareth. He was sharing a pot of tea with Cesca. He was thinking it too. There was Olly, we'd forced him to have a warm rum but he hadn't spoken in about half an hour so there was no doubt about his thoughts.

Alright I admit it! We all wanted to go home, damn it! It was late, we were tired. A sweaty nightclub sounded like the idea of someone who was only turning 28, (Cordy) when all her friends were 30 (us). It's not our fault she hangs around geriatrics.

To our delight, Cords was up for home too. When I say home, I don't mean bed. No no - the party would continue, but in the luxury of home. Tired Cesca, lagging Gareth, drunk Olly and Cop-Out Kim were revitalised by the idea. I'd even go so far as to say a second wind was in the air.

We'd buy some cheese and some red wine and we'd go home... home, that beautiful place where we'd all have a seat, control of the music, endless wine and limitless cheese. Surely there's no nightclub that can compete with that winning combination.

Now, where to purchase cheese as a Saturday night approaches midnight?

The lovely little barmaid came over to collect the empties. She had dreads and brightly coloured bits in her hair. She was possibly wearing a woolly jumper.

'Is there anywhere around here we can get some cheese?' Cordy asked her, as innocently as a birthday girl can.

The little dreaded girl looked at Cordy, tall, smiling, tipsy, middle class, clearly out for some fun.

'Ganja?' she asked. 'Do you mean ganja? Do you want some pot?'

Oh god. Awkward. No, we actually really mean cheese. Camembert. Brie. Cheddar. Just something tasty to compliment our wine.

There was a time not so long ago when if someone had offered us ganja, we'd have bought whatever they had on them. There was a time when if someone had offered me an aspirin I'd have taken it just to see if it made me feel different.

But those days are dying a slow, sorry, boring death. We don't want ganja, thanks, we were just wondering if the local Tesco is open at this time of night. We've got a lovely rijoca at home and it goes so well with a slice of Port Salut.

Happy 28th birthday Cords. Sorry we didn't tie you to a lamppost and strap an IV drip of vodka to your veins while serenading you with strippers and drugs.

Read More

I drink, therefore I am.

I was so smug when January started. I had quit sugar, wheat, alcohol and, consequently, fun. I was following a strict detox, as masterminded by this chap.

He warned the first week would be the hardest. Codswallop! It was easy. I flew through it. A doddle. I delighted in the oatcakes and the brown rice, I didn’t miss sugar and I certainly did not miss alcohol – I’d had enough of both in December to last a lifetime.

This is my December diet.

This is my January diet.



The first weekend of January, I met up with my mum and sister. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do my usual weekend habit of eating a lot of pudding. This will be easy, I told myself, I might even do February too. Smug as an arrogant bug.

The second weekend of January was a harder task. My beautiful friend Amy came to stay and there was no way I was going to be Little Miss Soft Drinks when I had friends giving up their weekend to spend time with me.

Surprisingly, we were relatively well behaved. A few gins, plenty of water. I didn’t get rowdy or accidentally break a plate, glass or vase, as is my usual want upon intoxication. Okay, I made the world’s best Nutella Cheesecake and had so much of it that I almost cried, but it was Saturday night. I was happy.

The third week of January, I broke. I started dreaming about sugary food. Cheesecakes and ice cream consumed my every thought – I was never like that (much) before the detox, so it was in fact the detox’s fault. Restriction led to downfall.

My cake making friend Adam cruelly emailed me this picture and this note: 'Can I make you a battenburg the size of your head as your wedding cake?' It was as much as I could do not to eat the computer displaying the image to me.

I met my sister for dinner in London for the third weekend in January. Tammi surveyed the menu – what an admirable array of cocktails, she declared.

As if I was going to have a tonic water. Pur-leese. I looked at the menu. But what I really looked at was myself. Suddenly, it felt okay to fall off the wagon because the wagon was beginning to look increasingly boring. I didn’t want to be sober. I didn’t want my sister to have less fun because I was sober – which, let’s face it, is true. When I’m out with someone who’s not drinking, I roll my eyes, write them off and talk to someone else. No one wants to be that guy. Least of all me.

And besides, I told myself as I eyed up a vanilla vodka, apple juice and berry concoction, it’s not wine. Wine has lots of calories and makes me shout at my boyfriend. It’s a cocktail, basically a few of my five-a-day and twice the fun.

So there I was, convincing myself that one cocktail increased my charm, wit and like-ability. Then the next thing I know, Tammi and I have sampled pretty much every cocktail on the menu and spent £185.

I didn’t just fall off the wagon, I bungee jumped off it and landed in a muddy puddle of alcohol and sugar. And je regrette rien, as they say in booze loving France. In your face, detox.

Any abstainers reading who think I should embrace sobriety because it really is fun and you don’t spend as much on taxis… don’t be ridiculous. Just stop talking.

Having successfully convinced myself that drinking is cool, I emailed my ‘I’m not drinking in January or February’ best mate Cesca.

‘Yes, er, I’m not doing very well at that,’ she reported back. ‘I’m totally shit at not drinking.’

And that’s why I love her and I love cocktails and spending a week’s wages in one night. I am no longer friends with tonic water. Because drinking makes my world go rosy. My detox has gone from the saintly avoidance of sugar, alcohol, wheat and, consequently, fun, to just avoiding wine. Much more feasible and, consequently, achievable.

ENDS

Read More

Who Am I?

To be a Jones, or not to be a Jones, that is the question.

So, I’m getting mazzered in 252 days, which means that potentially, in 36 weeks, I wave goodbye to Kim Willis.

I did not choose to be a Willis. I could have been named anything and I’m sure I would have loved it. Except, possibly, a Wiper, which is an actual real surname belonging to a friend of mine. That name I don’t think I’d have worn as quite the badge of honour he wears it, but then, he wears red trousers and has turned Wiper into a part of his quirky identity.

But any other name, tagged at birth and never having known any different, I’m sure I would have loved. As it was, I was given Willis. It’s my dad's name, and traditionally in my country of birth, the United Kingdom of Crap and Boring Names, the father’s surname is given to descendants.

I grew up a Willis and that meant being good at sport, winning, hosting great parties, never cheating or stealing, talking too much and too loudly and having a penchant for boats. That’s what it meant to be a Willis and I was proud of it.

Now I’m 29 years old. I’m no longer age zero, accepting the reality of the world to which I was presented. I’m now very much defined by my name. You can Google me if you want, I come up as number one. Unless you’re in America, in which case some religious nut comes up as number one. But I’m chasing her tail.

When I was a little girl, it dawned on me that women changed their names upon marriage. Nope, I thought, the mutineer in me already stirring. My name isn't going anywhere. Unless I marry someone with the surname Slazenger. I liked the letter Z, see, and thought it was a cool enough name to lose mine for. But anything less than Slazenger, no thanks.

Only slight problem is I’ve never met a man with the surname Slazenger, let alone fallen in love with one. Which makes the whole name change thing tricky. The man I’ve decided to marry (alright, he decided to marry me, but I still had a say) has the surname Jones.

Now, apologies to anyone reading who has the surname Jones, but it’s not exactly exciting. Catherine Zeta added the Zeta just to jazz it up a bit. She probably shared my fondness for the letter Z and was lucky enough to have a grandmother with a zeddy name she could borrow.

Gareth’s name is Gareth Iwan Jones. That’s quite fun. I could nick his middle name and be Kim Iwan Jones. I’d need a hyphen though, so people don’t think I’m a boy. But then I’d still have a different surname to Gareth anyway, mooting the point.

I continued to flip between throwing caution to the wind and accepting Gareth’s name, and being an insubordinate woman who refused to surrender my identity, with all the gusto of the rolling tides, while Gareth paid not a blind bit of notice. He couldn’t care less what I decided to do.

I looked at friends who had recently married. Some had changed their name, some had double barreled and some had steadfastly very much not changed their name. I respected the name changers for the romance of the notion that you ditch such a crucial part of your identity for love. I respected the name keepers for the defiance of tradition and expectation. I didn’t respect the double barrellers. Come on people, pick a lane.

My musings continued. If we’re going to have kids, I’d like to have the same name as them. Like my mum, who, despite 30 years of divorce and countless marriage proposals, chose to keep being a Willis. I like that about her, we’re a family. Although she probably just did it because she has the world’s snazziest signature. What she’s done with the word Willis I can’t even begin to attempt. But then, I’m left handed, it’s as much as I can achieve to not smudge the ‘W’ by the time I get to the ‘s’.

Then, t’other day, Gareth and I were discussing it again and we hit upon an idea. He did not feel the same allegiance to Jones that I felt to Willis, so suggested we come up with a whole new name, just for us. What a fantastical idea! Combining Willis and Jones to make Jillis or Wones is just silly, and Slazenger got vetoed for having no sentimental meaning beyond my childhood penchant for the letter Z, so we decided to look into our family trees and see if there were any names we fancied bringing back from the grave.

I was as happy as a clam by the very spectacle that Gaz was so free spirited and unbound by ego as to willingly change his name to something with a bit more pazazz. I got to thinking. In my immediate family history I’ve got a Van Humbeeck, Ornstien, Osbourne and Le Seelleur.

Hold the front page, we've found a contender. Le Seelleur. How awesome. I know it’s got no Z, but it’s Le Seelleur! Gareth started to imagine what it would look like on his website, I started practising my new signature.

Nonchalantly, Gareth agreed it was pretty cool, but asked, would we have to spell it out to people ten times a day? Who cares, better that than having the same name as everyone else in Wales, I retorted. Le Seelleur. Awesome. I saw us a year from now, signing our names with nothing less than a fountain pen. We’d probably start smoking skinny cigarettes and watching subtitled films.

Then, my god damn future husband changed his mind. That’s right, he changed his mind. ‘It sounds like ‘The Sailor’ he said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’ Then he made a joke about calling our first born Sinbad and ruined all my fun.

And so I’m back to fretting about my identity. Panicking about changing who I am. Pondering if the kids would really give a hoot what their mother’s name was. Wondering if I can spell it Jonez.

Read More

New. Improved. Me.

New Year’s Resolutions. What a cliché. We want to be better versions of ourselves, we make promises and lists, and then, come about the 14th January, we let ourselves down. What a more harmonious place the world would be if we all just accepted our weight, our bitten nails, our mild alcoholism and our lack of charitable deeds.

There are a lot of New Year Revolutionaries in my gym. Pesky folk, irritating me by being on one of the mere four treadmills that I would like to be on, were it not for their influx. But at least I know that, circa the 14th January, they’ll have got bored of the gym. Not me – I’ve got a wedding in 266 days, the gym is my second home. I’m going to get so fit and fabulous I’ll make Elle MacPherson look a bit podgy.

Usually, I avoid resolutions. I’m a pretty good version of me as I am and any plans to improve can be made as and when they are needed, not saved up for society’s One Hit Wonder Eve.

This year, although it shames me to admit it, I’m fit to busting with resolutions. Turns out Kim Willis needed a bit of a spring clean after all.

Get super sexy for the wedding. That means perfect Halle Berry skin, flawless Kate Middleton hair, tiny Jessica Alba bum and svelte Jennifer Aniston arms. When your fiance asks you to spoon him at night so he can ‘feel the warmth of your big fat belly’ you know your fiance does not need to worry that Ryan Gosling might want to run away with his bride-to-be. December’s Egg Nog has been replaced by January’s carrot and beetroot juice and I’m slowly beginning to feel wonderfully smug.

Work really hard so I can afford to pay for the wedding. No dilly dallying, no procrastination, no meandering. No Etsy. (Alright, a little bit of Etsy. Definitely no Daily Mail. (Love to hate it. Hate to love it.)


Possibly gamble all earnings on Poker? If I won big I could ponder Etsy as much as I like... Hmm, there's certainly some mileage in the idea.

Read more. Absorb information, like an eager sponge. I’ve subscribed to the Week in order to be more intelligent at parties and be able to cope when the conversation steers away from Kate Middleton and towards Afghanistan. So far the only information I’ve managed to retain is something about the dead skin in your pillow. Maybe I need to read a book about how to retain information.

Stop buying clothes. I’m out of control. Gareth refers to my sister and I as ‘The Shopping Sisters’ for our incredible ability to shop whenever we meet each other, in a smooth, swift system which we’ve perfected over the years. In. Scan. Possibly Purchase. Out. No messing. My wardrobe gets passed on to charity shops at a terrifying rate. I need to savour the clothes I’ve got and avoid all contact with my credit card.

So that’s me, only better. The old me, with added glitter.


And one more thing. I truly despise giving up alcohol at any time of the year, but most of all this popular time of year, when everyone’s doing it. This is when I most want to drink, just to make an obstinate point. However, I’m on a reluctant White Month – a month in which no alcohol is ingested. (That’s the dictionary definition. Intravenous loop hole?)

This is because December was so utterly lavish and drenched in alcohol that I feel a White Month is all I can do to redress the balance.

So there we have it. In having four resolutions for the new year, I’m attempting to be a better version of myself and in so doing, like myself slightly less for giving in.

Oh well. Next year I’ll go back to having one resolution. To change nothing.

Read More

Card Shark.

The most exciting post I get these days is when I’ve done something special for my friend Cesca, or my mum, as they are both thank-you card types of people. Sometimes my mum puts a little pressie in there too and I get all excited because it’s not a letter from the bank telling me I’ve done something wrong.

And that’s what I used to love about Christmas. Christmas cards galore, flooding my letterbox, the novelty stamp the Royal Mail provide at this time of year stuck in the corner. The proud display all along the mantelpiece. A little bit of news from relatives, a little bit of banter from friends. An impressive array of cards, some fancy, some old fashioned. Some, like my own, from Paperchase.

Ah, Paperchase. Maybe that’s why I love Christmas cards so much. Every year I can’t wait for the excuse to enter it’s glitter filled grottos and browse the tat. I always opt for the charity cards, because I’m such a good egg, but the important thing is the message I’m sending out. (Not Happy Christmas, the other message) ‘I’m the kind of girl who shops in Paperchase. You lucky little recipient.’

Alas, these days, fewer Christmas cards plop onto my doormat. Do I have less friends? Probable. But I blame the internet. It’s ruining my Christmas card collection.

Ok, so there are less trees being chopped down, which is a good thing. But it could be argued that we’ve all got our computers on for longer while we compile these awful, cheesy, sometimes interactive, always deleted Christmas email cards, thus using up more fossil fuels and resulting in the end of the world far sooner than would have happened had we cut down a few trees (and replaced them with new ones – Paperchase is well eco-conscious innit.)

So there you have it. When you compile an e-card (even the term is horrendous) you are bringing about the end of the world. (This is probably not true.) I just got an e-card from someone I do business with. She hadn’t even bothered to address it to me. Instead, it was to ‘Undisclosed recipients.’

Wow, I feel so special. I’m an undisclosed recipient. Thanks so much. Delete.

All those Christmas cards on my mantle piece go one of two ways after Christmas. They either get cut up and used as present tags next year, or if they’ve got a good, funny, personal, loving message from someone special, I’ll put them in my drawer of special things. I’d never actually print out an e-card so they just all get deleted. Where’s the joy in that? My grandchildren won’t get to look through a box of deleted messages one day and look at the beautiful hand writing Aunt Kiki had, or the fancy velvet stars on Amy’s card (she totally out-swanked me this year. I’ll get her back next year. Maybe I’ll up my game and get my cards in Harrods. That’ll show her. I’ll get a 3D card. Glitter will fall into her lap and a butterfly will fly out.)

There are some contenders already for greatest Christmas card given to me. (It’s a yearly contest, FYI.) Because although I’m moaning, some people still send.

Check out these beauties, my top four. Not sure who’ll be crowned the best yet, but the odds are on my future mother-in-law for her genius-ness.

The aforementioned velvet card from Amy. I’m not sure if the velvety goodness comes across here, but trust me, these stars are stroke-able. Oh, and I’ve just checked the back of the card and she only bloody shops in Paperchase too. Course she does! What a legend.

This mildly alarming and eccentric card comes from Peter. Nothing like a card with the words ‘violence, war, terrorism, racism, exploitation and bigotry’ ablazoned on the front to make you feel like it’s time to boil some mulled wine and wrap your presents. Jesus. But he does get a bonus point for it being homemade.

This sexy little number is from Will and Laura. Will works for the Queen so he probably got this card for free. Very regal.

Open it up and what have you got? Only the best picture of 2011! There’s a picture of Will and Kate inside a card from Will and Laura. And I’m not even sure Will and Laura are aware of my infatuation with Will and Kate. Nor are Will and Kate, for that matter, but that’s probably for the best.

And finally, this beauty. It glitters, it’s specifically for a mother’s son and his fiancée, it’s got a swinging bit of gold stuff. It just sums up everything that’s classic about the art of card-giving. Paperchase may do velvet, but Clinton cards know how to do old-school sentiment.

All these cards will find themselves in my special box of memories come January. They’re splendid.

To send me a card and enter my competition (I’ll send a prize to the winner) (I probably won’t) you can attempt to better these. Here’s my address:

Kim Willis
C/o Paperchase HQ
England.

Read More

Charm Offensive

After a day’s sightseeing in Bath, Gareth and I showing off to our London friends, Matt and Emma, just how much green and space and air and fun there is in Bath, we settled on some Yum Yum Thai for dinner.

Having been drinking since lunch time, we naturally ordered a hundred starters and a plate of duck meat each, plus a few bottles of their finest house white. We continued to talk and eat and drink and talk. Times were merry, fun was plentiful.





Somehow, the conversation found it’s way to mathematics. Like it does.

From what I recall, we were accusing Matt of being very good at mathematics and possibly even enjoying it. At that moment, a sweet little Chinese waitress came over to deliver the bill.

I know what you’re thinking – I was in a Thai restaurant, the waitress wasn’t Chinese. But you weren’t there. She was. There’s no rules.

Again, I’m fuzzy on how it happened, but the next thing I knew, I’d been informed by the waitress, who surprisingly wanted to engage with us despite our decibels in an otherwise peaceful dining establishment, that she too was very good at maths.

Right then. CONTEST.

Sober, I could probably have come up with a trickier multiplication. But the first thing that came to my head was: ‘Alright then, Matt, Waitress Lady, what is 22 x 22?’

Now I say that wasn’t very tricky, but even as I type this I’m going to have to get out the old po-cal (pocket calculator yo) and check the answer.

My poor old Dad. All he ever wanted was a maths genius for a daughter. He tried to explain to me a dozen times (a maths term for him there) simple equations for doing multiple mathematics in one’s head. Divide one number, double the other, carry the ten, THINK, WOMAN, THINK! But in my fear of disappointing him, my brain would go into panic mode and literally start melting while I began spurting out my two times table in the vain hope it would impress him. It didn't.

Whenever I have to do maths now, my palms sweat. But I can still dish it out in Thai restaurants to other people, be they strangers or friends.

So where were we? 22 x 22, come on!

Matt looks skyward for a second, his brain doing a little multiply all over it’s own frontal lobe.

Our waitress, on the other very impressive hand, needed no such second. Within an instant, without even a flicker of hesitation, she said ‘484.’

Now, like all good judges, I got my iphone out to check she wasn’t banking on my being too drunk to know if she was right.

And by jove, she only bloody was right.

Suitably impressed, we asked her how she did it. ‘In China, we’re not allowed calculators, we have to learn how to do mathematics quickly, in our heads.’

Wow, that’s some pretty impressive education. Although I guess it meant she missed out on what we all know happens if you type 5318008 into your Casio.

She left the table and we returned to poking fun at Matt for being so stupid at maths he took a split second too long to work it out and got beaten by a girl.

Packing up to leave, we did as all good dinner parties do and discussed the tip.

Inebriated, we decided our waitress would love it if we left her £4.84

But, the worry was, what if she just scooped it up without realising what a meaningful tip it was? That would be a calamity. We didn’t want her to think it was just lose shrapnel. This tip had meaning. It was probably going to be her most meaningful tip of the night, we couldn’t leave unsure as to whether or not she’d notice it after we’d gone.

‘Don’t worry guys, leave it to me,’ I said, putting on my jacket. I do love making speeches, even to an audience of one.

On our way out, I went over to our waitress and said, with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop: 'Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, just wanted to say thanks ever so much for the dinner and the mathematics. We’ve left you a very special present on the table.’

Confident that I was probably the best person in the room at that moment, I patted her on what may have been her head but was intended to be her shoulders, she was very short, and walked out. I think I might have even tried to wink at her.

A few steps from the restaurant old Maths Whizz Matt stumbles upon another great mathematical moment.

‘£4.84, while amusing and in reference to her impressive calculative skills, was less than a 5% tip. She probably would have preferred it if we’d just given her a decent tip.’

Good work Matt. There was I, Mother Teresa, dishing out donations, speeches and winks, and it takes you five minutes to work that out? I take no responsibility for it myself – my palms were already sweating at the thought.

ENDS

Read More

How not to win friends...

I used to like Noah and the Whale, then everyone got wind of what a great little band they were, which put me off somewhat. When one discovers something special, one hopes one can keep the gift a secret from the masses. The last thing I’d want is to like a song at Number One. I’ve got a reputation to uphold here.

(Having said that, I do love Cheryl Cole and I’m not ashamed to say it. Although I think that says more about her hair extensions than her singing.)





Anyway, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. His name is John Robins and one day, when he’s Michael-McIntyre-famous, a stadium sell out mega star, remember that you heard it here first. I liked him back when he compering gigs in Bristol pubs, a comedy whippersnapper.

Cesca (my best mate and his number two fan) and I developed a bit of a crush on JR at the last gig we saw of his a few months back. He’s a local Bristol comedian, so I’ve seen his star rise for a few years now. Indeed once, while hydrated by the intoxicating confidence booster that is gin, I told him post-gig that I loved him and backed him into a corner, literally, while Gareth tried in vain to let him know that when I said I loved him what I meant was, he was highly amusing. Sometimes I get the two mixed up. Because I don’t actually love him, obvs, I’m a loyally engaged woman*, but I do think he’s a very funny man, and funny is attractive. Just look at how well James Corden does for himself. It’s not the belly women are going for, it’s the funny.

*Ryan Gosling would make me reconsider this statement. But Gareth agrees, so that's fine.


Cesca and I were very excited about seeing John Robins again on Friday night at the Hen and Chickens, our local comedy box. We’d both stalked him on Facebook, I’d even gone so far as to befriend him - then sent Cesca a victory screenshot to prove it.

Then I’d cashed in on the fact my sister runs a comedy night by casually mentioning it to him via the safe-stalk which is Facebook. (Hey man, he let us be friends, it’s legal.) It was a low ebb, but what’s a girl to do? JR is the kind of comedian that you sort of feel is your friend. He’s just one of your mates, up on stage, being funny. I have to remind myself that John and I are not actual friends, try as I might. I really ought not even refer to him as John, so casual and familiar as that is. 'Mr Robins' would be more appropriate.

Fast forward to Friday night, and due to my penchant for falling asleep at comedy nights, I have recently made the bold decision not to drink during comedy gigs. The combination of gin, a dimly lit room and a stuffy lack of oxygen, meant even the front row wasn’t a guarantee that I wouldn’t head-nod. See Russell Kane, Lee Evans and Micky Flanagan for examples. I’m like a budgie with a cloth over the cage. Sobriety was an investment in my consciousness.

But, it makes for a slightly less gobby, less confident Kim. Old JR might have been slightly confused that the girl who last time pinned him up against the wall with the force of my banter alone and got so excited when he asked my friends and I if we’d like to join him for pizza that I nearly broke a glass was now too shy to even look him in the eye. (The pizza invite really did happen, I’m not dreaming. Friends did not let me accept the offer, for fear I’d make a tit of myself. I liked them less after that. Stupid friends looking out for me, ruining my chances of being friends with a funny person / making a fool of myself. How dare they.)

Cesca and I were embarrassingly early to the gig on Friday. We even beat the bar staff to the door. At least we had Gareth with us, so I didn’t look too insane. ‘John Robins, John Robins, look, your favourite fans are here, but we’re not mental, we’ve got boyfriends,’ was the kind of message we wanted to get across. Gareth was my token insurance of sanity. Crazy stalkers don’t have boyfriends, JR! Be friends with us!

From said front row seat, I did not fall asleep, hurray, what an achievement. However I was in his direct line of sight when he announced that, sorry ladies, he now had a girlfriend. Bit awkward. But I still think he’s one of the best comedians alive today / love him very much. The line is blurred.

Anyone a fan of Flight of the Concords? That's me. Crazy stalker lady. Husband in tow.

Read More