Why I don’t think Vice will be giving me a job anytime soon.

Last week I went for an interview at Vice magazine. That’s right, VICE. THE MAGAZINE. I’ve never been for a magazine interview before, and I can’t stress enough how nervous I was. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure I jinxed the whole thing when I got drunk and decided to tell everyone. I didn’t plan on mentioning it, but – as most of my friends know – when I’m drunk I get incredibly full of myself. Just like with dancing, swimming or playing board games; you name it, after a few tequilas I’m fucking fantastic at it.  I was telling people I didn’t know and who didn’t care. I start using the words ‘lame’ and ‘cool beans’ like an asshole, rolling my eyes and chewing gum that I didn’t really have. I was all:

“Hmmm? What? Did someone say Vice? Yeah I got an interview there next week. You know it? Well it’s pretty cool. But whatevs. Don’t care. Caring’s lame.”

The words just kind of dribbled out of my mouth, like when you’re too drunk to throw up properly. Then I carried on with my cool dancing, which involves half-closing my eyes and throwing my arms around out-of-time to the music.

In hindsight, I think the moment it really went wrong was when I walked into BOTH of the glass front doors to the Vice office. I’d like to point out, though, the doors said push, and I most definitely did push. Probably a little too hard. It would have been less obvious if I hadnt been walking with a pretty vigorous stride in an effort to appear confident. So the door didn’t open, but I carried on moving forward. That’s right, I DID A BIEBER:

I tried to move on quickly and pushed the other door, which also didn’t open. I began to panic, and decided to go back to the first door. Also known as DOING ANOTHER BIEBER:

Obviously I hadn’t realised that I was to wait for the receptionist to buzz me in. I can only hope that she enjoyed my moment of terrified, unintentional slapstick.

When I was called through to the small glass room where my interview would take place I was already in a flustered panic, and soon realised that this was how flies must feel when they’re trapped under a glass. I then completely underestimated the height of the sofa and practically fell into my seat. I felt uncomfortable, like Hagrid sitting on one of those tiny plastic chairs used for kids in primary school.

The first question was relatively simple: “What do you want to write about?” But, because I’m me, I choked. I made a worse first impression than every single Big Brother contestant put together. When given the opportunity to ask questions, somehow enquiring about money took precedence over all the other smart questions I had lined up in my brain. I then proceeded to tell them how I’d nearly been fired from every job I’ve ever had. Unlike before, this word vom was fast and free-flowing and unstoppable. Even when I thought I had nothing left to give, more words would explode out of my mouth; tiny insignificant sentences that would burn my throat and made the interviewers feel uncomfortable. When I finally came up for air my fringe resembled soggy spaghetti, stuck down to my cold, clammy forehead. It was more embarrassing than the time in primary school when I forgot to wear pants on PE day. As I was guided out to the reception I wondered if it would be entirely inappropriate to lie on the overly shiny floor and let out a big wail like a child in a supermarket. I decided against it, but I’m sure it wouldn’t have shocked them as much as some of the answers I gave to their questions. I think it could have only gone worse if I had… I CAN’T THINK OF ANYTHING WORSE.

What’s most distressing is that I actually had a lot to say. I had so much stuff I wanted to write about! I wanted to interview the mother and daughter who make porn together! I wanted to go out on the streets and ask people stuff like this:

  1. Would you rather eat human poo or dog poo?
  2. Who would you rather be friends with: Jeffrey Dahmer or a Dorito?
  3. Would you have given the door to that selfish bitch Rose?
  4. Would you rather push your mum or your dad off a cliff?
  5. What’s your most embarrassing sex story?
  6. If there was a bum-hatch in a onesie would you use it?
  7. What’s the best name for a cat?
  8. Which one of the Jersey Shore cast are you?
  9. What’s your favourite insult?

I wanted to write about how I don’t get Twitter or Call of Duty and how much I hate celebrities and men that cry and Tracy Emin’s art and how I want to go back to school and hang out with the popular kids for a day so I know what that feels like and why I would never ever have sex with any of One Direction (besides the fact it would probably make me a paedophile). But I didn’t get the chance because of my ill-timed brain freeze.

I then drowned my sorrows in some mulled cider with a friend. We used the free, alcohol-soaked fruit as dinner, which included accidentally swallowing a star anise that got stuck in my throat like a hairball. It all started so civilised, until the cider took hold and we started a rather indecorous game of top trumps about who’s got the weirdest sex story. I’m relieved to say it was about even.

It all got a bit depressing again on the way home when I had to stand up on the train for two hours opposite this couple…


…who were treating the tube like a game of seven minutes in heaven; wrinkling their noses at each other and putting their hands in each other’s pockets. I feel there should be a leniency in the law that allows you to punch twee, smug couples like this in the face. I think having to endure this flagrant disregard for my central vision for two whole hours until they got off the train – presumably to go home, have a shower, take the throw cushions carefully off the bed and have sex in the dark – counts as being provoked.

I know I’m being dramatic, but I can’t help worrying that this is how the rest of my life will be. I’ll be forty and stuck in some diabolical office job, probably still living with my dad, eating Dairylea triangles and sherbet dib dabs for dinner and only being able to afford holidays-for-one to places like Norfolk and Bognor Regis. If anyone wants to come, YOU CAN’T. Forty-year-old Pascale don’t share her caravan with nobody.

With any luck the world will end tonight and I won’t have to deal with any more interviews ever. If anyone needs me I’ll be lying on my bed, waiting for death like the old couple in Titanic.


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