I asked the tall woman what her name was. “Bianca Jagger,” she replied icily. I laughed and said, “Of course you are”
Don’t you just hate worthy people? They make non-worthy people (that is, everyone else) feel terrible about themselves. I also often find worthy people are not actually good at anything, so they opt for a career in worthiness instead.
I tried to be worthy this week, but as usual it’s no fun for me if I don’t sabotage the situation for my own entertainment.
I did three shows for charity, none without misfortune. Charity shows are never a barrel of laughs – I’m always worried about offending someone, and then I get bored and dare myself to offend anyway. I think: “I’m not getting paid – what can I get out of it?”
First stop was for a charity I support called Trees for Cities. The evening was made painless mainly because I had the pleasure of sitting next to the highly entertaining Jon Snow, whose opening line to me was, “What are your roots, darling?” Before I had a chance to answer he said, “I love Iran, it’s an acquired taste, but I love it.” I said, “What do you love about it?” With a smirk on his face he said, “All the people are young, they’re all about 24.” I couldn’t work out whether this man was winding me up.
The conversation then escalated to him revealing to me that Gordon Brown only has one eye, and a tongue so big it doesn’t fit in his mouth. All the people on our table roared with laughter at the entertainment provided by Mr Snow. But his successful after-dinner routine came to an immediate halt when he announced to the table, “Inside every serious man, there is a stand-up comedian waiting to get out.” We all became very afraid.
I cannot understand people who introduce themselves by their full name in day-to-day conversation. I was at an awards ceremony last week when a friend of mine introduced me to a tall, dark woman whose face I didn’t immediately recognise. I said, “Hello, I’m Shazia.” She said, “Shazia who?” I felt like saying “Shazia from Muswell Hill”, or “Shazia the grim reaper, time’s up love”. I avoid saying my whole name because said fast it always sounds like “Show us the murder”. And I’m not Taggart.
I told her my full name, feeling like I was in court, and asked what her name was. “Bianca Jagger,” she replied icily. I laughed in her face and said, “Of course you are.” Everyone stared at me with embarrassment. I suppose for some people it is very important to state their surname – without it they are nothing. However, I still believe the only person who should be allowed to say their surname in day-to-day conversation is James Bond.
I am concerned about the environment and have been doing my bit this week by ramming my car into cars with Friends of the Earth stickers on. Hypocrites. I wonder if peopleare going to start snorting ethically sourced fair-trade cocaine? All these middle-class Guardian readers who make everyone else feel guilty because they haven’t got the latest organic kitchen composter, but quite happily sustain one of the most corrupt and dangerous industries by snorting something that has travelled 6,000 miles in a primary school teacher’s rectum.
For the first time, I am performing at Glastonbury. As a Glastonbury virgin I have been having nightmares about it for weeks. I’ve been in training by sitting in puddles surrounded by empty lager cans and fire jugglers. I haven’t been in a tent since the Brownies. Furthermore, I am deeply concerned for Shirley Bassey, who is performing in the Living Legend slot. Her dress costs more than my house and is accessorised with a helicopter and its own security team. I hope she doesn’t kill the look by wearing a pair of Ugg boots with her outfit – that really would be so Cardiff.