Interviews are bloody hard. All that maintaining eye contact, but not too much, but how much is too much and before long you are not listening to anything that they are saying as you’re worried that you are looking at them like a crazy, boggle-eyed mental. They make me wince endlessly at their horridness as you have to appear like a perfect little work-oid and not like the imperfect little bundle of contradictions and stupidity that you are. So, when I was offered to an interview, to do a job that I was relatively interested in, I was a little reticent to accept: sometimes it seems a whole lot easier to just continue on in your boring, hum-drum little job than try and do something else. New jobs mean that you have to endure the pain of being a person so far removed from your real self for months, just to fit in that you forget who you are. I, on the other hand, have never had a problem with being the “odd” one in the office so that doesn’t worry me. I was more worried about my CV being something of a work of fiction, and more importantly, being found out.

Entering the interview, turning on a perma-grin which is extraordinarily hard to maintain for more than a couple of minutes and I set Phasers to stun. Unfortunately, my Phasers were having something of an off day.

Within ten minutes, the fire alarm sounded and we had to leave the building which brought with it two horrors: losing the two hours of mentally pumping those key phrases around my head, that make you sound like an utter twat outside an interview situation and the true horror of making small talk with people that you don’t know. As soon as we gathered outside, I tried being polite asking questions but all I could think was that I’ve brought my bag and coat out and maybe I could sneak off before I could inflict anymore damage on myself as the eye contact thing was throwing my brain into overdrive.

One of the many and important lessons learnt this week is: do not under any circumstance lie on your CV. A little white lie here and there about non-existent work experience may seem like a brilliant idea at the time to fill up a little blank space but those lies will haunt you. Who’d of thought that a little exaggeration about work experience that I didn’t do would have meant around five minutes of creating made up duties in my head, on which, I was asked detailed questions about. “So, where did you receive information for updates?” “Did you not get them from a website?” “How did you present this information?” “What ideas and things did you implement?” I was drowning under a sea of shit, and it was my own doing. I was increasingly despising myself and it was getting worse.

I lied so badly that my voice became intermittent. My body was screaming “Just shut the fuck up and leave with some dignity in tact” but I still proceeded to make up utter tosh to the point where eyebrows were raised. What made matters worse was that I was asked questions about their competitors and what they do and I completely made up the answers. I didn’t have a clue. I spent ten minutes critiquing other stations and their output as I didn’t have the bottle to just say “I’m sorry, I’m not aware of their output, however from research you seem to be a cut above them with your diverse programme output and understanding of your audience.” It would have been that easy.

I also made the fatal flaw- although to be honest, it was impossible not to do- of slagging off some well known personalities calling them “inane”, “dull” and “unbelievably stupid”. My interviewer then piped up that he would never “attack anything others were doing as everything is appealing to one audience or another” which not only made me feel a little foolish but also made me want to retaliate “Yeah, but I’d rather not work for a company that appeals to the stupid, loud and thick as pig shit demographic.” I was also asked about the personality that I’d be working with and it took all my strength not to call him an “egocentric dickhead who can’t get over the fact that his TV career is dead” and praise his ability to deliver to an audience in a “friendly, down to earth way”. Some days, I wish I wasn’t allowed the power of speech.

In addition to the general I was also asked what I found funny, and being the little smart arse that I am I said that “Schadenfreude” was my thing and that there is nothing funnier in the world than someone getting hit in the face. Interviewer then piped up with “So you take delight in other people’s misfortunes and pain then?” I nodded on saying “Yes” but it was only on my departure that I realised that the “Yes” wasn’t delivered with a knowing smile or a cheeky wink (which would have been also inappropriate). I must have appeared to be some masochistic freak and can only hope that he harbours some Secretary-esque desires in which he is the insipid Maggie Gyllenhaal and I am the masterful James Spader.

The worst thing was the job was doing something that I actually have an interest and more bloody importantly, an expensive qualification in, which crippled me financially for quite a while and demanded once I finished the bloody thing, I had to work seven days a week for six months to pay off the overdraft and extortionate course fees.

I got the ‘thanks but no thanks ’ look on my exit, that anyone who has ever been cruelly romantically re-buffed has had, and they said that they will contact me next week and let me know either way. I, personally, wouldn’t employ me; after all, I am after all a silly bloody liar, and a crap transparent one at that.

Afterwards, as I walked out the door pulling awkward, embarrassed faces I was trying to think of things that I would have preferred to have done for an hour rather than hang myself on my web of lies. The best, or worst (but still preferable) thing imagined was rigorously attacking my face with a cheese grater then burying my head in a sack of salt.

I commiserated by visiting both Camden and Clapham, as I only had a zone 1&2 ticket for the underground and wanted to make sure that I derived some value from the day. I spent the time walking down both high streets, with my shoes pinching my feet making me walk awkwardly (think Python’s Ministry, if Cleese wore heels and rested on the outer sides of his feet for balance and was considerably angered by himself). Apologies to anyone who saw a red coated man woman pull an array of faces like a schizophrenic witch on Thursday in the general vicinity of those areas. That was me: I am deeply sorry for any nightmares I might have given your children.