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.