This is no

I hate shooting in studios. It's always a joyless, oppressive experience - not least because most studios are situated in the hinterlands of West London, near dismal stations on the Piccadilly line like Park Royal. And anything that reminds me of West London is like having my face rubbed in my childhood in much the same way that you'd smear a cat's face in its own urine to punish it.

Black Island has got to be the worst. I'm probably alone here though. Most people love the convivial atmosphere of the canteen; they love popping onto the different stages at lunch to look at the sets and catch up with crew members that they haven't seen for a while. Fuck that. As soon as I set foot in the car park of Ile Noire I'm bored out of my mind. Where's the hi-jinx? Where are the jokes? The monkeyshines? There's never anything funny to Flip there. Just a monitor, bare cups of tea and a bunch of geezers sitting around reading the papers. Studios are inherently racist against flip cameras. Anti gold. Give me a location shoot any day. At least a local Lambrini drinking nut bag might rave at you - "Yo can I get some matches? Fuckcunt. DOCTOR GIVE ME A PILL. Are you my lawyer?"; or some rudeboys might try and steal some shit out of the Arri truck - "Oii, what size is that camera?"; or a wee wee granny might ask what you're filming - I always say Eastenders. And if the entertainment runs out, there's usually a boozer nearby that you can retire to. So don't try and tell me that studio shoots are better. I'm not listening. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

A case in point was the Preston video shoot last week. I was primed with all media. Flip Cam. Check. Cybershot. Check. The Flip never even made it out of the bag. Before I knew it I was slumped in front of the monitor on a Tetley's comedown. I only took one still all day - that of producer Paul Weston wearing vampire teeth.


At first I thought Preston was quite safe, but he turned out to be really vain - the kind of dude that would make his girlfriend watch him try on different outfits before they went out on a Saturday night. It reminded me of working with boy bands. There's a 'hair guy' in every boy band; the guy who dumps a gallon of gel on his hair and then can't stop fucking fiddling with it, tousling it, compulsively checking it in every available reflective surface. "Does my hair look OK?" If they could stop looking at themselves for more than a second they'd realise what a cunt they are.