When I arrive outside the building, be it Grosvenor House or wherever, I'd go all silly and giggly because ohmfgkajshdakjd over there is Matt Smith! And look! Martin Freeman! Gillian Anderson! You get the picture. So I'd hurry up the carpet and probably go over on my ankle in my heels, and during my descent to the floor I'd grab onto Trevor McDonald's coat tails in order to remain upright. People would be pointing and staring so I'd run off to the loo to find that my face is bright red. I promptly down two glasses of Moet.
I take my place at my table, and Graham Norton or whoever comes out and I become aware that a cameras are flying around all over the place so I assume a facial expression that's a cross between absolute fear and tipsy embarrassment. Attractive (Anthony Head! Positions!).
Gradually the awards would start to roll out and I'd clap a lot and laugh loudly at jokes that aren't particularly funny. Like when Mr Norton says something like "The Only Way Is Essex? Really?" and people give a small ripple of giggles and from the back of the room you can hear me going BAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA when it all goes quiet. At this point the people on my table are wishing they were over there with Miranda Hart or Steve Coogan.
Then it would come to my category and my stomach would be in knots and I wouldn't be able to focus on the little video thing before so I'd forget to clap at everyone's work and then a camera would come on to me sitting there like a sweaty, stuck-up lemon. Then they announce that I've won and I promptly burst into tears. I make my way up to the stage wobbling about a bit due to my sore ankle and wine consumption. I'd kiss the presenter the wrong way and put the BAFTA the wrong way round on the podium. My speech would go like this:
"Oh blimey. This is very strange. I feel a bit like I'm going to faint, scream, laugh hysterically and wet myself all at the same time. Oh hey Matt Smith! Anyway, this is a very nice award and if there's anything I need it's a big gold face staring at me while I'm on the loo because of course it will go on my bathroom shelf. This is very toilet-oriented and my mother would be ashamed. But it's late, and I'm drunk. Hey Matt! So thanks to everyone I've worked with and that, and thanks to my friends and stuff. Screw you Beaumont drama department you f****ing tits! G'night all!"
There would be an akward pause and then people would clap and I'd sit down and do a head desk as a joke, not noticing that the posh bangers and mash that we'd ordered for dinner had arrived so my face gets covered in potato and dead pig.
In the after party, I attempt to talk to Matt Smith but he sees my eyelashes are full of buttered starch and runs away in fear. I go home clutching a BAFTA but full of shame.
The next day the newspapers run with the headline 'LATERS POTATERS!' and I never appear on television ever again.
The End.
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