It’s been ten years. An entire decade. More than a third of my life, if you are gullible enough to believe my lies about my age. In reality, it is almost a quarter. That is a terrifying thought. A quarter of my existence has been spent waking up at horror o’clock in the morning to go talk shit about Lindsay Lohan and her ilk. I’ve loved every minute I’ve spent with Jo Stanley, Matt Tilley and Troy Ellis. The on-air part of working on the show has been magnificent. Insane belly laughs. Jo once described it as a daily chuckle club. So therapeutic. Given how much work we always put in to the show, the laughter, rather than salary, seemed like the real payment. There were tears, there was anger, there was frustration, there were interminable meetings that were so boring that they could have hypnotised chickens into crumbing and frying themselves, but inside the bubble of the studio, there was nothing but laughter.
It was a bubble. There was an insane kind of safety in knowing we were in a sound-proof room.