If you knew where to look tonight, the real me was on television twice today.
Firstly, I was in the audience of Mock The Week, clapping and looking bored, right at the front, next to the guy, the one with the hair and the shirt and all that.
And secondly, and rather oddly, I was interviewed on Channel 4 news in my living room. Lead story, too. It must've been a quiet news day.
Thanks in part to Little Bird, I have been trying to reclaim my bank account charges. British banks have been charging £30-£50 for going over your overdraft, even if only by a few pence. Over time, I've been charged around £600 for such infractions. The banks, they claim, have to charge this for administrative reasons, when the true cost is only a pound or two.
Bearing in mind that banks are squeezing people with no actual money of their own - those living off overdrafts - and you have a bunch of cunts treating their customers as cash cows. Nonetheless, some people have fought the suits and got their money back. As for me, I'm being somewhat of a chancer and not holding out much hope.
Thanks again to Which? consumer group and the nice lady I'd been emailing in my efforts to get these fines back, she'd asked me yesterday if I could spare the morning to be interviewed.
My boss didn't care. Neither did I. I took the morning off, and I ended up looking far far less attractive than I've ever imagined in my head. In fact, there's nothing quite like a cold, hard camera pointed at your sweating head, or capturing your lumbering gait as you walk like a Neanderthal with weight issues along a high street, chainsmoking in a hoodie (why did I wear that on film?), to make you realise why you can't get laid.
I wouldn't have sex with me.
Fortunately, very fortunately, I refused the segment producer's suggestion that I stand in my living room flailing Large Northern Flatmate's aluminium baseball bat around my head (to symbolise my fight against my bank), because I'd look like a cunt. I silenced the room with that statement. I also rebuffed his suggestion to symbolically and actually lift my weights, for the same reason.
The producer looked put out, but the cameraman backed me up.
'Don't worry, I wouldn't do that either.'
And so, as a comprimise, I was filmed walking outside my flat, stumbling, looking small eyed with nostrils a-flaring, smoking (five in succession for continuity's sake), and resembling a twat.
I'm frankly amazed that I've had sex at all.
Oh, and I'm also on record as having said that banks will spend more on lawyers sorting the mess out than they will on saying 'We've overcharged you, have it back.'