The Brits – what a bloody miserable show. Partially that’s because it’s winter in the UK, which sees the red carpet being turned into a great big shite sack after only 10 minutes, and partly because it’s at the height of the awards season, which is how I decide to spend half my day.

But that’s all background noise and I’m totally in it. If the Brits were any simpler, they’d be hosting a show that pretended to be either dead or imaginary, but they’re neither. “You need a bit of humour, you see?” they say. And boy did the Brits have some, especially given their running theme of not talking to each other for a weekend.

Thank god they had this one for me. Thank god.

(Wait, one last thought. God did create all the Brits. One day, they’ll have time to celebrate them.)

You know, I just feel really sorry for people trying to write about the Brits. They have no idea what to write about.

For example, I was sitting on a sofa, desperately not drinking. But then my guest whispered, “Do you know how long you’ve had those in?”

“Nine years,” I said.

“Oh. That’s a long time,” he said. “What’s he been drinking? Wetherbull or something?”

Wait, wait. How could someone be critical of someone attempting to drink a drink when they also haven’t had their head or neck/etc upright for the past nine years? This just made things worse. I nearly passed out, literally walking sideways.

To make things worse, ITV decided to ask me to be my mother’s personal assistant. Why? Oh, that’s right. I really was not in a position to do that and they thought I’d give a bob. So, a woman who – it is a cinch – watched zero films last year spent an hour that I could have been talking about alcohol completely blanking on from this wide-ranging discussion about whether you should wear wigs and sandals to your sister’s wedding when you don’t need to and why you should be in cryo-sleep because the whole experience “feels like a cryo-sleep”.