Ah, London! Such a cultural hub!

Last week, I visited the BBC Radio 2 recording of The Lee Mack Show, a comedy variety show. Hosted by Lee Mack (the guy from The Sketch Show) and accompanied by musical guests Martin Fry (Shoot that poison arrow through my heeaa-aaaaart!) and Mel C (Yes. Sporty.), the recordings were such good fun, I'm going again next Tuesday!

Last Saturday I got all swisho (hi Helen!) in my tux for a black-tie gala musical adaptation of the Broadway production, City of Angels. A très swanky affair what with everyone dressed up to the nines, sipping champaign and attempting vainly to dissect the drama! Loadsa fun!

However, last night, I suited up again in black-tie for the big one.

Two words: Casino Royale.

Two more words: Royal Performance.

Two final words: World Premiere.

Yup, I was lucky enough to grace Leicester Square for the World Premiere Royal Performance of Casino Royale!

The entire square had been taken over for the opening of the film, with a massive stage, red carpets, huge spotlights and the soundtrack blaring from every corner. As I took my place to walk the red carpet, I realised I was standing directly in front of Rick Yune (who played the diamond-encrusted henchman in the last 007 film). Amongst the other celebs there, were all of the film's cast and crew, plus the likes of Elton John, Shirley Bassey, Sean Bean, Sharon Osbourne, Paris Hilton, Lord Richard Attenborough, the Sugababes, Richard Branson (who has a cute blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo in the film) and, of course, the Queen and Prince Phillip.

It's a very formal affair. Three cinemas in the square were linked by CCTV (unfortunately, I wasn't in the same cinema as the main dignitaries), as 4,200 people sat down to watch the movie together. The Queen did the rounds and was introduced to all who worked on the film before Lord Richard Attenborough got up and gave an address prior to the film. Then, the producers formally introduced the cast and crew, before the MGM lion roared and it all began.

Inside, the cinema was alive. Everyone chatted excitedly, clapping and cheering at various points in the film.

Oh, and the film! Excellent! Just excellent! It was so, so different. Like the past 20 films never existed! In fact, the best thing - and what I won't spoil - is just how wildly it varied from what one expects in a Bond film. Structurally, thematically and tonally, it just continued to surprise, neatly leaving enough loose ends and an enticing set-up for the sequel (due 2008). And Daniel Craig turns in probably the best Bond performance ever.

What an amazing night!

I hate getting my hair cut. I hate it more than going to the dentist, I hate it more than drivers who fail to indicate when turning and I hate it more than any film starring Ryan Reynolds. I would even go so far as to say I hate it more than Britain's notorious Frosties ad (watch it and you'll know just how serious I am in my disdain for hairdressers).

Honesty, I can't think of a more unpleasurable experience. Everytime I go, it feels like a brutal interrogation. You're planted in a chair, given a black robe which is only a few white stripes and a serial number away from a prison outfit and are promptly surrounded by people brandishing scissors, razors, combs, hacksaws and God knows what other kind of gruesome weaponry.

Worse, surrounded by mirrors and copious amounts of unnatural light, no move goes unwatched. There are just so many opportunities to come across as a freak. Can't remember a joke and crack a smile to yourself, can't pick your nose, can't taunt the small child unhappily getting their mop chopped in the chair beside you; freak, freak, freak!

Personally, I have the minor problem of being extremely ticklish. Whenever they wrap that bit of paper towel around your neck to stop renegade hairs tumbling down your shirt, I squirm and giggle like a schoolgirl, an image endlessly reflected throughout the funhouse of mirrors that is the hairdressing salon.

My most recent trip was particularly torturous. I was first led to a basin where my hair would be washed for me. Ghastly episode! Water and shampoo in my eyes and ears and nose, an experience compounded by the fact my hairdresser failed to specify that my head should sit resting on the rim of the sink and not thrust face first into it.

Next I'm lead to the cutting area (I'm sure they have proper names for these places, right?). No part of this is easy. I can never succinctly convey how I want my hair cut ("shorter" was my most recent response), and if they botch it, that's it. There's no going back; you can't uncut one's hair. What's more is that you can't even tell them how you feel (trust me on this: I once did so as a child, much to the poor hairdresser's horror and subsequent severe depression).

Then, simply because I'm me and this is my life, the power cuts out. So we're suddenly without a functioning hairdryer, razor and funky jazz music. Oh, and light. Yep, she's cutting my hair in the dark. All too conveniently, she tells me she's finished, leaving two thirds of my fringe conspicuously uncut.

Unfortunately, the fact she was unable to blow out the remnant hairs with a hairdryer caused me my worst grief on the tube on the way home. As the air rushed through the carriage, the people behind me were promptly showered with hair. As I seemingly balded at a furious rate, my fellow passengers were subjected to arguably the sickest ticker-tape parade in history, waving off airborne hairs like flies or spitting them out as they interrupted numerous conversations.

Perhaps life would be easier if I really was bald.