There's nothing like running through a stream of traffic at the Marble Arch roundabout to make it to an event on time. The high of arriving just before the media entrance closed soon evaporated though at the sight of about seventeen other journalists pushed up against the metal barriers of the red carpet, eagerly awaiting the celebrity arrivals like fans at a concert.
We were in for a star-studded line up and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to chat to Love Islanders, Strictly judges and couples, Ru Paul's drag queens, TOWIE and Made in Chelsea cast members, and famous British sports stars.
I was also feeling slightly sick at the knowledge that in about twenty minutes I'd either be desperately elbowing my rivals out of the way to get a quote or standing at the back not getting a quote at all. I couldn't decide which was worse.
My first task was to find an ally in the tabloid throng who would let me to stand next to them, rather than behind them. My eyes scanned the press line. I saw a journalist from The Sun who I'd met at a film premiere the week before. Thank fuck. She was positioned at the front of the queue after the TV and radio crews, before the print journalists, with a camera creating a barrier between her and them. A prime position.
"Oh my God heyyyy baaabe!" I squark at her. "Ohmygodhiiiiii!" She reciprocates. We air hug and pat each other's back. I loathe myself. "Could I by annnny chance squeeze in just here? Isn't the press line chAAAos tonight!?" I purse my lips on the word 'squeeze' to make it sound cute but instead it comes out like I'm talking to a baby.
Clearly used to this kind of bullshit by now, The Sun journo doesn't bat an eyelid. "Of course babe as long as you don't step into my camera line - it's for my socials." The rules of the game are established. They will be defenestrated at the first glimpse of Molly-Mae of course.
The PR manager dutifully comes over to ask us which celebrities we'd like to speak to most, more as a formality rather than because she will have any influence over who they deign to talk to. She's interrupted midway through addressing us by someone speaking into her walkie-talkie. She responds in clipped speech: "No if they're not on the list they can't come in because, well, frankly they're too late." I can't help but laugh at the cliché.
At 5pm, the first brave celebrities through the gates are Harvey Someone and his girlfriend. He was in the final of Strictly two years ago so I don't waste my energy trying to get a quote. My eyes are glued to the gates. I spy my first Love Islander of the evening: Dami Hope. With the help of his agent, I pull him for a chat.
"Congrats for getting through Love Island. You made it out alive," I say to Dami.
"I was always going to make it out alive" he pretends to act offended.
"I guess it's not a survival show," I relent.
"No no it is a survival show! Survival of the fittest!" he says.
I give him my heartiest client laugh then move conversation onto Ekin Su and Davide. (They would later grace the red carpet for all but two minutes because the rain prompted Ekin Su to run inside and protect her hair.)
"They're probably arguing about bringing a yellow bean bag into the house," he jokes.
"And what about you and Indiyah - have you moved in yet?" I ask.
"We finally got a place. We're moving there in November. I'm excited - pretty sweet flat," he says, neglecting to mention the flatmate he'd be sharing it with.
"And we're at The Pride of Britain Awards - what are you proud of tonight?" I ask.
He pauses for thought. "I'm proud of the people that do the things that, you know, people oughta do, saving lives or whatever... are the NHS here?"
I suppose he didn't pause long enough for that thought.
Over Dami's shoulder a set of smiling pearly whites catch my eye. They belong to Joey Essex. He's not my type but there are some truths we just have to accept in life: The Queen is dead, Rishi Sunak is PM, and Joey Essex is fit. I catch his agent's eye and mouth the words "can we get Joey over?" whilst beckoning and head-nodding enthusiastically.
I can feel the adrenaline giving me a kick up the arse as he walks over. Don't say anything stupid. Don't freeze. Be cool. Bat lashes. I take a deep breath and open my mouth.
"Hi Joey welcome to the Pride of Britain awards how are you feeling tonight?"
My mouth is still open, except that my jaw is almost on the floor as I look to my right in shock at the The Sun journalist who has decided to start her own interview with Joey. He glances at me and I shut my mouth and feel myself blush. He looks back at The Sun and speaks into her microphone so I start recording on my phone not knowing what else to do.
"I'm grateful for life because, I think this is a fact, I don't know how I know this by the way, but I think it's one in 4 billion that you have life," he says.
Both The Sun and I pause and speak over each other "What does that even mean?" We both ask through high pitched laughter.
"Hang on I'm gonna get mugged off here. You're gonna type in google 'what is Joey Essex talking about?' That's a Joey Essex fact. It's a scientific fact. 4 billion. Life."
All I can do is continue laughing and enjoy looking at him because I've been robbed of the opportunity to interview him properly even though we are standing right opposite each other.
"So tell us about your Dancing on Ice training then," The Sun journalist changes tack.
"I can admit I have had the most injuries so far. I've had three. Done my leg on the first day, done my finger on the second day, and then I've really damaged my shoulder on the fifth day and that's an exclusive. I've not told anyone about that. That was like 4 days ago," he says. "JOEY ESSEX EXCLUSIIIIIVE," he bellows and then laughs. I think the meaning of an exclusive might be slightly lost on him given he just told two different papers at the same time. "I had to have stitches. It looks good though dunit. I'm trying to like swag it out like what Keith Lemon does with a bandage - I'm doing it with a finger," he says chopping the air with his arms. I finally get a word in: "I think you look just fine," I say. (subtitles: I would still bang you tbf). And with that, he moves on. I overhear the next journalists ask him about his love life, to which he responds "No comment. I keep that private." Photos of him an ex-Love Islander Maura Higgins snogging are seen all over the Mail Online the next day.
Jamie Laing and Sophie Haboo are next to appear. I wave them over. Preparing my most charming lines, I'm out-charmed by Jamie who says "You have such amazing eyes," then turns to Habbs for verification "Hasn't she?" Now I know why he got away with murder on Made In Chelsea with all the ladies. We chit chat about Strictly, lockdown, their upcoming marriage and I sort of forget I'm meant to be interviewing them rather than just shooting the shit. Their parting words of wisdom:
Me: How's the wedding planning going?
Jamie: terrible
Sophie: skating along really slowly, dragging along.
Jamie: never get married basically.
Sophie: just don't do it
Me: I'll have to get a boyfriend first haha! (cries softly) By this time the red carpet is getting less chaotic. I missed my moment with Molly-Mae who was interviewed by BBC Breakfast right next to me but then refused to do anymore interviews after "that long one". I think it was less than 5 minutes but she is pregnant and tired so we'll allow it. Georgia Owen and Luca Bish posed for many photos in front of us but declined an interview because "We don't talk to The Sun."
Once the smug pair were out of earshot I turned to The Sun journalist and said "You don't talk to The Sun? The Sun's your bread and butter love! You need me!" For a split second I worried the joke wouldn't land but luckily she laughed with me and didn't think I was taking the piss. Because I wasn't.
Mary Berry breezed by and looked afraid of anyone who tried to talk to her so I didn't manage to get her to talk to me. After two long hours, it was finally reaching 7pm. The last stragglers were pacing down the red carpet to get inside for the main event and it was our task to hold them up just a minute longer.
Keir Starmer, accosted by BBC Breakfast, stood and chatted with them for a few minutes. He was in my eye line so I tried to use my hypnotic powers to force him to come and speak to me afterwards. Then I remembered I had no hypnotic powers and he made a quick escape from the stare-y eyed journo who was probably giving him the heebiest of jeebies.
Suddenly the punters across the carpet started screaming. Mo Farah had entered the building. Metaphorically of course because we were outside in the pouring rain. To my astonishment, after dancing a few mobots to please the crowd, somehow we got him to come over to our patch.
The Sun asked him all the usual fluffy questions. How was he feeling? What should Britain be proud of? Have you got any projects in the works you can tell us about?
In answer to that last question he said "I can't tell you but I can dance for you," and next thing we knew he was dancing with his arms, moving each part in isolation from his left finger tip to his right, so it looked like he was passing a wave of electrical current across them. A move I often like to whip out on the dance floor.
When he returned from this brief interlude, I asked him a more earnest question: What memories of the Queen does he cherish most? His answer was probably the best thing anyone said to me all night. (The compliment from Jamie in close second).
"She was incredible. She was bubbly. She knew who you were. At the time you don't take it in but thinking back we'll really miss her. Britain wouldn't be Britain without the Queen."
Of all the incessant coverage that came surrounding The Queen's death, of all the descriptions given to her over her long seventy-year reign, never had I heard the word bubbly associated with Her Majesty. Mo's choice of adjective will stay with me for a while I think.
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