It's in a conference hotel near Gatwick. There will be dried out chicken breast. There will be a z list TV presenter to hand out the cráppy awards. There will be a Monopoly money casino.
There will be banter.
How many bad life decisions must have I have made that I still need to do this shít?
The worst bit is the people I'm going with. A bunch of lads who appear to think that's it's still 1973. Rampant racism, sexism and homophobia are de rigeuer, the extent of which repulses even my somewhat robust sensibilities
There will be Sambucca shots. I guarantee it.
Tomorrow I will drive home trying not to puke. This is no way for an adult to make a living.
I spent all of that day basically pressed up against him. Every time he asked a question I was in there like a shot. At one point he asked everyone to taste a sauce and demanded to know the missing final ingredient; when I went to answer he held up his hand and said, 'I know you know, but I wonder if anyone else does?'
They didn't. It was lemon. He beamed at me because I hadn't let him down and I almost passed out with pleasure.