Luckily, possible brain damage didn’t hold me back from obtaining my first job as head of events for a nightclub in central London. This was where I met one of my best friends, Iffe. She was meant to be my assistant, but as it turns out, she just wasn’t somebody who was born to assist.
We worked together for a whirly, blurry, spangly year, where we lived off canapés and champagne and threw parties for the rich, the famous and the odd D-list soapstar. In fact, if I had had any contacts in the newspaper industry back then, I probably could have doubled my income flogging stories to the gossip columns. We threw parties for MTV, Vogue, Dolce & Gabanna and Universal Music. Rappers launched their clothing ranges there and Film companies hosted their wrap parties there.

I remember lending my office key to a rather famous actress one night. She wanted to keep a birthday cake in there, ready to present to her boyfriend and their guests at midnight. About half an hour after I had given it to her, the duty manager let himself into the office, using his own key, to get something out of the safe. He discovered her in flagrante with a swarthy looking man, who was most certainly not her partner. “Lord, they were going at it” he told me rather lasciviously wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “She was bent over your desk with ‘er trousers round ‘er ankles and there was blimmin’ coke everywhere!”

The best times, however, were during the day time, when it was just us. Sure, there was a lot of work to do, but every now and then, we would make time for our own private party. This involved one or other of us slipping behind the bar to create what we always hoped in vain would be a delicious cocktail. Then, having held our noses and downed it, we would turn on the club’s light-up dancefloor, dim the spotlights and shake our little butts to whatever we could find to put on the turntables.

Iffe was eventually fired by the owners of the club for having an attitude problem and although I was saddened, I could appreciate their sentiments. Six feet of eye-wateringly beautiful model from Nigeria via New York, Iffe is in possession, according to my father, of ‘the best bottom that God has ever created’. Now, whether you buy into that or not (and I do), one thing is for certain- the girl turns heads. Because if the heads haven’t already turned at her looks, they’ll turn at her mouth.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” She had been known to yell at the room upon entering the club.
“You call this a club? You call this a party? Why is nobody dancing? Fucking white people! I need a goddamn drink.”
And do you know what? She’d get her goddamn drink, alright, but perversely, it was usually bought for her by the very person that had been the target of her abuse. That girl is so beautiful, that people fall in love with the sound of her shout.

I was tagged by SallyonTour and now I am under obligation to reveal seven personal facts. It hasn't been said out loud, but I'm sure the threat of seven years of bad luck/ no sex/ ingrown toenails hangs heavy in the air should I fail to comply.

So here goes:

1. During my second attempt at a driving test (taken when I was living in Hawaii) I hit and killed a mongoose.
2. I work on a national newspaper.
3. I have been flashed at by strangers six times.
4. I have helped various barnyard animals to give birth. On TV.
6. I can't get enough of raw meat and raw fish
7. I am a qualified lifeguard

Okay kids, that's me. Now I tag

Chrisandkev
Oregano pro
Magical Mystery tour
Normal Guy
Ethelread
HenriettaHottenpot
YackYack

Although if you can't be bothered, I totally understand and by the powers vested in me by the tagging spirit, I hereby grant you immunity to the bad luck/ no-sex/ ingrown toenails clause.

Rules: Each person tagged gives 7 random facts about themselves. Those tagged need to write in their blogs the 7 facts, as well as the rules of the game. You need to tag seven others and list their names on your blog. You have to leave those you plan on tagging a note in their comments so they know that they have been tagged and to read your blog.

NEXT CHAPTER OF THE BOOK COMING SOON!!!

My name is Alice Simpson and I am an undercover journalist.
So undercover, in fact, that nobody (including Men’s Mag and the Daily Gazette) know that this is what I actually do. They think that I’m just the girl who makes the tea and answers the phones, but they’re wrong.

I was born in London in 1982 to King Tut and his wife, Queen Fruity Nipple, well that’s if you believe the birth announcement that my dad took out in the paper. Actually his name is Steve, just like my dog, who I named after him to wind him up.

He and my mother, (real name Caroline) are now divorced, due to “a misunderstanding”- she thought that being married meant that you couldn’t shag 20-year-old blondes, whereas he forgot to read that part of the small print.

I have a younger sister called Sophie, who is almost as clever as she thinks she is and another dog, Ella, who I inherited from one of my dad’s ex-girlfriends.

I am of medium build, taller than average height and my hair is a currently fiery red, but this is courtesy of Loreal, rather than any Celtic genes. Not everyone is a fan of my new gingery locks, though and I have had my fair share of abuse over the past few weeks.

“Well I love it,” My cousin Adam had said the other day in response to some detractors at a family get together.
“Really, Adam?” I asked, surprised and touched.
“Of course! You’re my cousin, so as far as I’m concerned, the less attractive you make yourself, the easier it is for me to resist incest.”

You just can’t beat the Simpson charm, that’s for sure.

Growing up I did all of the things one might expect of a nice middle class girl- private schools, pony club and pottery, followed in my teenage years by pot, getting pissed and pursuing boys.

I went to university in Bristol, not because of any desire to further my education, but because the middle class idea that you will never succeed in life without a degree had been hammered into me so hard, that I was terrified of the alternative. I chose to study drama, because I thought that it would be fun but realised my mistake the moment I set foot on the bleak, windy campus, located in the part of Bristol where old prostitutes go to die.

“Ok everybody, how about a game of tag to warm up?” The teacher suggested on my first day.
Did I really get up at 7am and take two buses across town to play tag? I wondered as everyone jumped enthusiastically to their feet. But I seemed to be the only one of this opinion. The game began, with everyone dashing around, tagging eachother earnestly.
“Waaaah!” A particularly objectionable half-wit called Dave cried as he tripped over. He clutched his knee like a five year old, turned to the teacher and whined in a sinister baby voice.
“She pushed me,” This was emphasised by pointing finger which I would have loved to lop off with an axe.
“Did not!” denied the accused blonde, also in a fake little girl voice.
Inner children were on the loose everywhere, but mine was off around the bike sheds somewhere, having a fag and try as I might, I couldn’t coax her into a game of tag with my new classmates.

“Ok, everyone in a circle, we’re going to play another game. Alice and Dave, you go in the middle. Alice, I want you to go stiff as a board and fall backwards into Dave’s arms. This is a game of trust”
A game of trust? I turned to the dribbling mongoloid that was Dave. In addition to looking stupid, he appeared dirty, clumsy and alarmingly un-strong.
“Do I have to?” I appealed.
A curt nod, suggested the affirmative.
I fell backwards, stiff as a board and landed hard on the back of my skull.

For the last hour and a half, I have been transcribing an interview with the UK’s biggest female porn director. Quite why anyone wanted to talk to her for this long is beyond me.

‘The funniest things that I’ve ever seen happen on set are probably when the girls fart or the cameras get covered in spunk,’ giggles Ioni Luvcoxx cheerfully. ‘Oh, and once we were doing a water sports scene, and the whole camera crew got soaked.’
I hit the pause button on the dictaphone to type up this latest revelation and take a tentative sip of tea. ‘Actually, we were all really shocked that time, because the girl literally sprayed the whole room- it wasn’t human! There was piss all over the camera man’s face and I got wet too. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t smelt so horrible. We got the girl back though at the end of the scene though. I had the guy shove her head down the toilet as he came on her back.’

I was starting to feel dizzy.

“Are you nearly done with that?” asks Matt, the sandy haired staff-writer who has given me the task of typing up and editing his latest masterpiece.

“Yes, and it’s a great interview,” I simper, “Ioni Luvcoxx, eh? She must have gone through hell at school with a name like that.”

Matt laughs and wanders off. I am on my third day of work experience at Men’s Mag and I’m not sure that it is for me. I have already had to call ten convents to find out if any of the nun’s would like to test fireworks for a Guy Fawkes special (they wouldn’t) and called an orphanage to… Actually, I don’t even want to admit what I asked the nice lady at the orphanage.

“Is it ok if I use my lunchbreak to do an interview of my own?” I ask the eighteen year old editorial assistant, who is in charge of me. She has an impressive crop of spots, a yellow fringe and nails that look like they are made out of plastic.

She takes a break from her magazine to look up curiously. “Sure, who’s it for?”

“The Daily Gazette.” I answer, “I got a job there just after I got accepted for work experience on Men’s Mag, but I wanted to see what working on a magazine was like, so I told them I couldn’t start for two weeks. I’m going to interview Sting.”

She looks impressed. So she should. It’s impressive stuff, or at least it would be if everything were quite as it seemed.