This day two weeks ago, I was flown over to London to interview the stars ofThe Proposal, Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds, and the director, Anne Fletcher. Here's a perambulation of what happened before and after the event itself.
Why is it that the one night you need a decent kip, your subconscious refuses to behave? Instead, it throws you half-dreams, in which deceased relatives return from the dank depths to consume living loved ones in the fleshy grey puddle they've become. You know, nice stuff. In other words - the alarm bell clattering at 4.45am was almost welcomed.
After the prompt arrival of the taxi, I wandered in to the manic, churning mass that is Dublin airport departures at 5.55am. Approximately hour and a half to kill looming ahead; plenty of time to pen the questions best left unasked ("So, Ryan, what's bedding Scarlett Johansson like?!"). The rain hurling down, I tuned into Phantom to see what mix tape they had playing at 6.45 in the morning. The ears were met with the strains of November Rain, which was a cosy accompaniment to the lashings of water which were streaming down the windows panes of Terminal B. The sole break in the grayness was seeing Xpose's Karen Coster chowing down on a pastry, bare eyes staring into the middle distance. She was almost unrecognisable without the TV make up. She looked infinitely lovelier.
Flight and 20 minute trek from the Irish terminal completed, the next part involved standing in line at the Terminal 1, 2, 3 Tube stop to get a ticket. Here, one couldn't help acknowledging the wild-haired, middle-aged malcontent waiting behind me, barking at his child - "JEREMY, DO NOT MOVE! NOT A MUSCLE..." When there was one person left in line before me, the six-foot mass of madness barged from behind and made his way towards a Tube map two foot away. Then he cut in front, offering a curt "CAN I GET ACROSS?!" by way of an apology for knocking me backwards. After deploying some questions at a random ticket assistant, he made his move, hovering at my left shoulder approximately two inches in front of me. When the ticket machine became available, I stepped forward, to a barrage of tutting, huffing and tsking from himself. He half let me through, his berth could've surely blocked me, but he was looking for an altercation - so I gave him one. Peering over my shoulder while fumbling at the machine, I said:
"Well, you were behind me."
"WHAT?"
"I said; you were behind me. What's with all the tutting?"
"Uh, I NEVER was (liar), you jumped ahead!"
The ticket assistant then leapt to my aid, as the lack of glasses (yep, quite blind without them, in fact) was hindering the quest to get a ticket.
"AWW 'ARRY AP!!" came the bellow from behind, along with a string of profanities.
Ticket retrieved, I turned to say: "Given we've yet to leave the airport, you are a charming example of your countrymen."
"AW, GO FAK YOURSELF!"
"Case and point, sir. And I would do but I'm in a terrible rush!"
That was a lie. There was 2 hours to dwindle before registration at the Mandarin Hotel. I just loathe queue skippers (especially when I'm not the one doing the skipping). This is an example of how reckless one can be without sleep. I nearly started on one poor lady who pilfered my chocolate (she claimed in error) at the Butler's coffee shop back in Dublin airport.
Two hours of Tube riding and Knightsbridge shopping complete (sounds swisher than it was; I was in fact sweating up a storm, wriggling in an out of various "on sale" garments in H&M. Not a good idea when it's well over 30 degrees outside), I found myself peering at a pasty, clammy mass of red hair and itchy nylon in the reflection of the Mandarin lobby toilets (which are fiercely far away from the lobby). Several minutes under the (comparatively cool) hand dryer later, I was in the Press Suite (which was heaving with European journalists, peering at production notes and half-watching Wimbledon) waiting to be called. It was Sandra and Ryan first. No pressure considering it was my first ever "to camera" junket.
Fifteen minutes later I was called by a lovely lady and asked to sit outside the hotel room housing Sandra Bullock, Ryan Reynolds, cameras, searing lights, and a slew of people lurking in the shadows. To take the mind off what was about to happen next, a nice diversional banter was had with a security guy from Scotland, who "usually tours with Westlife" (apparently things are a "nightmare" now that they all have other halves and kids to herd around with them). Then it was my turn to enter the room. "Come on in and take a seat", one of the many lovely ladies said. When my sleep starved mind propelled me towards the seat beside her - there was, after all a wall of arses (three in total) bending over Reynolds and Bullock at the time, preening them - she quickly corrected me, "No, no, over there" *points at seat opposite wall of arses*. As I wedged myself in behind arse number 3, a tanned arm extended itself between posteriors 1 and 2. It belonged to Ryan Reynolds and he was looking for a handshake: "Hi, thanks for coming! Sorry, we'll be with you in two minutes." After a quick bit of banter, in which my posture assumed the foetal position, obviously for reassurance purposes (at this rate I'll be 4ft 3" if the bones ever see seventy), I was informed we were rolling. This is what followed...
Yeah, it trails off because I (blinded by lights, lack of spectacles and first junket ignorance) failed to notice one of the many lovely ladies telling me to wind up the interview. This resulted in a verbal interjection coming from the darkness when another (more pertinent, I swear) question was attempted: "Sheena, I've been gesticulating wildly at you for the last two minutes. We're WAY overtime. We'll have to leave it there." There was no time to wallow in the encompassing mortification; Anne Fletcher was waiting.
Everything after that is a bit of a blur. The brain was too intent on persecuting itself with, you know, the usual thoughts of inadequacy: "You shouldn'tve asked that question, and WHERE were you going with that one?! Stick with the notes!" In fact, the only time it gave itself a break was when I had the joy of being seated beside a gentleman on the plane who was the textbook embodiment of "small man syndrome". When he wasn't splaying his legs to an 180 degree angle, casually cupping his crotch, or locating somewhere new to throw his fun-sized jacket (anywhere but the wee hook provided to the side of the seat in front of him - it even found itself strewn across the airhostess's seat before take off), he was elbow-deep, plucking jellies from the pleather seat pocket with the precision of a veterinarian birthing several miniature gelatin calves. It was then that I wrapped my scarf around my eyes, so the imagination could entertain itself with notions of Ryan Reynolds's motorboating technique...
All in all, it was a great experience, especially seeing how these things work. Granted, kippage the night beforehand would've been nice, but sleeplessness is to be expected - it's not every day you get to meet Van Wilder and Annie Porter. Speaking of which, they were both incredibly genial given they have to sit in a darkened hotel room for hours on end, while half of Europe flings questions at them. The paycheque probably does its bit to help dull the monotony.
