In a week that’s seen my laptop die, the fan belt of my car snap, and the bailiffs come knocking on my door because of a (none-the-less mortifying) administrative error, interning in television production has felt like light relief.

Not for this internship some of the humiliations that have previously befallen me. Putting myself in the unusual position of being a closet heterosexual while pretending to be queer at a magazine for lesbian and bisexual women. Nearly getting sacked from a music mag for tweeting that Vampire Weekend had almost run me over backstage at a festival. Failing to review the sex toys in an illustrative enough manner, then later having that same re-written piece rejected as too pornographic while at a “pro-sex feminist” magazine in New York, leading to a sit-down chat with my editor about what constitutes good sex writing. Something you never, ever want to learn from an aggressive alcoholic whose handbag – which held her hip flask – has just been stolen.

Not that interning has been all bad. When I graduated with a Master’s degree that (how to put this politely?) remains the biggest waste of time and money in a life pock-marked by bad choices, I qualified for an intern visa to the States, packed my bags and ended up in Detroit interviewing film stars and directors, a move that – while not lucrative – served to make people satisfyingly jealous. Aged 21 in a room with Halle Berry and 11 other hacks? Count me in.

I also got to live in a Manhattan youth hostel populated by religious zealots and the kind of scary losers that no one should have to handle after the age of 23. I don’t want to give too much away, but who among you has spent a day on a photo shoot with women wrestlers from the WWE, and a night at a roller disco, before rescuing a cat from exorcism by an overweight Baptist?

Not that any of this meant much when I got back to London. My application to stay in the States was refused, leaving me to compete against about two zillion other people, their family connections and, in some cases, their capacities to submit to all manner of compromising positions to eventually achieve the professional position they want. Despite being grudgingly impressed by this level of ambition, I can’t even contemplate it: you should see some of the people I’d have to f**k.

With that partially in mind, I – the world’s oldest and most disaster-prone intern – have given up on a career in print journalism, but have generously decided to give the media one last chance by undertaking an internship in television production. Join me as I research shows I wouldn’t be caught dead watching, meet consistently disappointing celebrities, fail spectacularly to be noticed by my co-workers, and laugh openly when the office bitch – who’s been trying to bully me for months – is made to cry by a member of the general public.

It’s going surprisingly well…

Read Actor X’s final column.

Image: good secretary by anniebee, available under a CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 license.