Scientologists and sushi

It's been a strange week. It started with a YouTube war between Scientology and the BBC. On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I came out of the tube thinking that some benevolent FM radio station had decided to bestow the humble media workers of West London with free breakfast. Smiling girls in shiny black bomber jackets were standing the length of the street. Feeling quite peckish, I eagerly approached them, only to find that they were handing out DVDs called 'Panorama: Exposed' (Panorama is the name of the BBC documentary that so offended the Church of Scientology). I handed it back faster that a hot potato, especially when I noticed the logo on the bomber jackets was not for a radio station but for one FREEDOM TV, which is actually owned by the Church of Scientology. Weirdly, the girl didn't flinch when I handed back the DVD, but merely continued to smile vacuously at me as if she was handing out something pleasant like free Glastonbury tickets. I've already seen Panorama: Exposed and it is complete propaganda. (As I write this, I worry that somewhere a little alarm is going off and two Tom-Cruise lookalikes in sunglasses and menacing black suits are being dispatched to my door to reprimand me). Anyway, I was telling a journalist this on Tuesday night and ended up making The Guardian - my first small taste of UK fame (rather pathetic I know).

The rest of the week wasn't quite as exciting as on one evening I discovered that however nice people are, there are some people who may like to fill their diaries with visits to the theatre, buy memberships to the National Portrait Gallery, and have invaluable tickets to the latest hot rock act, but really can only talk about shoes, Excel spreadsheets and financial takeovers. Maybe my old friend Demis was right - there are two types of people in the world. These people, well-meaning though they were, were not mine. To top it off, I ended the evening - which did at least provide an authentic Japanese meal and brought back memories of Tokyo - with a nasty bout of food poisoning. It was enough to induce a rather stupid shopping spree today in an attempt to revamp my wardrobe into something more Kirsten Dunst-like. (Unfortunately I forget that I don't have her credit rating.)

And the dubious week was rounded out by the people who organise the BAFTA Television Awards denying me a press pass (to add insult to injury, it took about ten phone calls and an email to get that denial. Don't they know I was in The Guardian?). Weirdly, they did offer me a red carpet pass, but I couldn't bear the thought of getting all dressed up, fighting a scrum of professional journalists for the chance to yell something incoherent at Stephen Merchant, and then have to go back on the tube in my fancy dress and high heels while everyone else got to go inside. I declined, and plan to instead write a scathing blog about how unprofessional their publicists are.