Monday, 7 February 2011

DIARY OF A HEDONIST


With this column I am going to write down all the little absurdities, niceties and downright Bridget Jonesy situations that I get myself into for your amusement.


A brief intro to who I am: I am half English half Brazilian and although I am very proud of my Brazilian heritage the only thing that is vaguely Brazilian about me is my fairly sizeable bottom. I am a redhead, therefore plagued daily by the stigma of being a ‘ginge’. I live in Shepherds Bush, conveniently close to Westfield to cater for my shopping addiction. I am terrible at relationships; I have a talent for lunging at the worst moment and once I managed to leave my knickers in a boy’s room after the night before …..and I really can pick’em! I would describe my style sense as vintage Parisian chic meets London high street brash – quite often there’s a little too much brash and not enough chic but hey isn’t that just so edgy.. I like to think of myself as an international woman of mystery having travelled afar and lived in every continent except Africa – I can speak French, Spanish and Portuguese – not to boast or anything. Oh and one small detail: I love to drink champagne and luckily for me my job working for a Champagne House entails drinking lots of it.


So here starts the ‘Diary of a Champagne Girl’:


10 days ago now I went to the National Television Awards. I know this is not a patch on the Oscars or baftas or golden globes but as an avid trashy television watcher this was very exciting. It was the Wednesday evening, my colleague and I were hardly able to concentrate on the emails and phone calls coming in as we counted down the minutes till we could whizz to the ladies to get changed in to our glad rags. Unfortunately for me my boss arrived back from meetings 10 minutes before go time and I had to send off emails and notes and samples. I tried not to feel resentment towards him as the reason we had the VIP tickets to the NTAs and after party was because of him. Nevertheless I was secretly screaming in my head: ‘MY GOD! HOW AM I MEANT TO SEDUCE DR WHO IF I’M NOT ABLE TO GET TO THE LADIES AND STYLE MY HAIR, FRESHEN UP MY PITS AND PUT ON MY BRAND NEW SEXY KNICKERS!!!’


So yes ,you guessed it ,I rocked up late, with un-styled hair and un-fresh armpits to see some of the nations treasures. Lucky for me Cheryl was wearing some hideous bondage dress and was showing off a mahoosive tattoo. You can take the girl out of the council estate... anyway we found our seats, I had met up with my plus one who was my wonderful enviably beautiful housemate who is an actress;the joys of not having a 9 till 5 job enabled her to apply just the right amount of make-up, tease that lock of hair so that it fell in just the right place on her forehead and of course make sure the tit tape was covering just the right amount of bosom up! The ceremony was boring, the only person who really brought the stage to life was Stacey Solomon and for all the wrong reasons. My beloved Stephen Fry was of course just perfection, as was Dermot. I suppose I just wasn’t bothered anymore after David Jason won best actor for drama over Dr Who and Ant & Dec won best presenters for 10th time in a row! The bottom line is the British public should not have been allowed to vote. The after party, which did I mention was VIP? Was the weirdest thing I’ve ever been to. Clearly not an occasion where old friends and screen rivals have a jolly good knees up but an occasion to see who can eat the least amount of canap├ęs and get in there with the most producers.


I am not going to lie to you and say that I was as cool as a cucumber about walking in to the bar area with Tess Daly’s arm brushing mine or that Anne Widdecombe bumped in to me and said sorry – she is such a darl - or that my eyes met Matt Cardle’s across the crowded room and I think or at least I keep telling everyone that he smiled at me. So the atmosphere in the room was a bit strange – clearly no one was wanting to really let their hair down in case they got papped getting out of a taxi with no knickers on... I for one as a nobody had no such qualms so let me regale you with my total uncoolness at trying to get as many pictures of celebs drinking my shampoo as possible. I had 3 glasses before I descended upon them.


Blunder number 1: Davina McCall. Did you know she is a recovering alcoholic? I didn’t. I marched straight up to her and asked her nicely if she wouldn’t mind having her photo with a glass of champagne. I was given a fairly sharp reply of ‘I am teetotal, I do not want to have my photo taken with any champagne or any other alcohol’ – woops.


Blunder number 2: When I asked Stephen Fry if he would have his photo taken with champagne and he replied that he is allergic... liar.


Blunder number 3: I went up to Baby Spice AKA. Emma Bunton and totally didn’t notice that she is pregnant!


Blunder number 4: I walked outside for a breath of fresh air and didn’t realise but was standing right behind Peter Andre who was filming for his ridiculous reality TV Show ‘The Next Chapter’. Of course me being me I didn’t casually saunter off but gave out a little scream and look of shock before stumbling off in my heels. I hope they edited that bit....


So just when I was about to give up, the sexiest man alive came in to view. T4’s very own Steve Jones. He is divine. I was about 6 glasses down at this point and you could probably smell the desperation on me. I grabbed a bottle from a waiter’s hand and marched up to Steve flinging about 3 stage 5 clinger onners that were surrounding him. I literally grabbed the beer bottle our of his hand and got my poor suffering housemate to get a picture of him pouring me a glass (I look like the cat that got the cream) and a photo of me pouring him a glass. SUCCESS AT LAST! After that we got photos of a few Hollyoaks cast members and Matt Cardle’s band mates.


The highlight of the evening for me was over hearing Mark and Sam from ‘The Only Way is Essex’ having a massive barney about the Christmas Special episode and getting a photo of my housemate hugging the tantastic Amy Childs.


All in a day’s work.


Cordelia Rosa


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