Writing, not writing, job-hunting, Irishmen...

I am supposed to be writing a blog. But not this blog. The blog I should be writing is for my new gig and that's my number one new piece of news to tell you.

Firstly, I should state that I still don't have a proper job. Sorry, didn't mean to get you all excited there. Instead, I am the official theatre blogger for London Underbelly (you may, should you fancy, check out my first blog here ( http://www.londonunderbelly.com/ ) It's unpaid but, y'know, it's experience. And a good chance to make contacts etcetera. Except making contacts, networking and all that jazz is my least favourite thing to do. I just want to get pissed with cool people who don’t judge instead of worrying if they are useful/important/impressed by me.

But as my wise friend Simon pointed out last night (At least I think he did, I was a little drunk and the music in the bar was noisy) if I want to get into this sort of work then a-schmoozing I will have to get. Writing is, after all, all about contacts. People have to like you to publish you and have to know you to like you. But supposing they don't like you? Why wouldn't they? BECAUSE YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, minor nervous breakdown. Well Suzie, the very cool head of London Underbelly was complimentary about my first blog so that boosted my confidence for approx 5 mins before it once again plummeted, dropped out my ass onto the floor and slithered down the nearest drain. So I've spent the last 7 hours procrastinating about my second blog (even though it's only about 500 words). I thought if I wrote this one instead it might at least kick my writer's block (more like writer's paralysis) into gear.

Onto the next update: The job-hunt continues. I signed on for the first time last week. I'd expected a dismal queue in a cold grey room with bump-and-grinding men as depicted in the Full Monty and was somewhat sad to be allocated a comfy seat in an overheated room opposite a guy who looked a bit like your pervy uncle. I badgered him into sorting me an appointment at a recruitment consultancy and to be fair, I was in there for a good hour while Unc went above and beyond to sort it all out for me. And the next day off I went. My recruitment consultant's name was Baz. He had a Hoxton fin. To be fair to Baz, he has since sent me some useful links and an action plan but I did have the feeling that our meeting was more about how great he was at his job rather than finding one for me. At one point, he told me he was a very creative person and had, on his wall, an Andy Warhol quote on how “being good in business was the best kind of art”. A little bit of me died there and then. And when looking at charity/arts-based jobs for me he exclaimed 'I don't know how you work for these people. They don't pay very much, do they?' GRRRRRRRRRR. I fear we will never see eye to eye, but then maybe that's what I need to kick my ass.

Piece of news number three is that the drought is over! Whilst out dressed as a broken doll for Halloween I hooked me a guy. We were at a pub in Peckham Rye and he came over, slightly pissed and said ‘Can I just say, you have the best boobs on the Rye?’ Well, it was much more charming than the usual ‘UGGGGGHHH NICE TITS!’ I must confess, I didn’t get an instant fanny gallop when he approached but he did look like a good manly man... and then I realised- he was Irish! From Donegal! And you know how that works on me. So we had a nice chat, yeah yeah yeah, you can fill in the blanks there but all I’m saying is it was similar to that whole Rugby Sevens/Afro French man/Spicy Fingers incident...

So I arranged to meet yer man on Monday. We went out for cocktails and had an excellent drunken time. As the old joke goes- Irish first date? Get drunk and have sex. Ladylike decorum prevents me from telling you whether we did or not though (Oh, take a guess!)

The next day, as I staggered through M&S at London Bridge with debilitating hangover, I didn’t glimpse déjà vu so much as was whacked repeatedly over the head with it. After all, this was exactly how I spent my mid-twenties. Too much drinking? Celtic men? Bruises in sensitive places? Shouldn’t I be over this by now?! The worrying continued; will I still be doing this when I’m nearing 40? And then I thought- is that such a bad thing?!!

Yesterday was spent recovering, drinking again and then watching a great play at The Rose and that is what I am now supposed to be writing about. I still can’t take myself seriously as ‘A WRITER’ though. I just feel so embarrassed talking to people about WRITING and WRITING this blog like they’re going to look me up and down with disdain, hissing softly while I admit, actually, that I cannot write; that in fact, I’m a grand eejit with no talents and should spend the rest of my life in my room, under my duvet, slowly festering until I die because that is all I am good at.

Harsh. But writing matters to me so I paralyse myself with fear that I can’t do it. I think, along with my terror of networking, I may have to get over that.

What I like today: not having a hangover, green tea, The Apprentice, the word ‘eejit’.

What I don’t like today: not having a job, writer’s terror (which I do not get because I am not a writer