Being supported by the soon-to-be defunct UK | Film Council, no one’s really sure what’s going to happen to the Virgin Media Shorts competition in the next few years. Well I’m not sure anyway, and I’m buggered if I’m gonna do any more research on the matter. It’d be a shame if it does disappear though – not because there’d be less opportunities for young, aspiring filmmakers to win the £30,000 cash prize + aid from Virgin Media (so... no help at all then) to make their next film. I don’t give a toss about the very specific sort of pretentious wankers who enter competitions like these. NO! It’d be a shame because there’d be one free-booze party less, to which I could be invited.

One of this year’s pretentious wanker entrees was my good pal Nathan, and his short film Pickle. Pickle had done extremely well to make it down into the final shortlist, and if nothing else, earned the director-man three tickets to the ceremony + afterparty. Along with the opportunity to schmooze his arse off to a bunch of film industry tossers, themselves at the bottom of the food-chain, forced to spend their Thursday nights watching kids’ films, then having those kids unashamedly vie for their attention all night. It’s lucky the booze was free, they would need it.

Unfortunately, because Nathan had exactly two spare tickets in his possession (which he’d offered up to Gazz and myself... after his original guests had pulled out), and because he was inside when we finished work, it meant Gazz and I would have to meet before hand to get in. Nathan’s a big superstar now, and he can’t be bothered to come out the front and hand a ticket to his mate more than once – and FUCK YOU for asking! But because Gazz didn’t finish work until 8, it meant I’d have to go home, then come out again, lest I want to hang around the Southbank for a couple of hours (I don’t want that), plus I should have changed my T-shirt anyway. I’m not turning up to a Short Film Awards in a Cannes 2007 T-shirt like a crazy old man shouting to people at a U2 gig, that he once saw Bono buying a coffee from a Barnet Welcome Break in 1992

Once Gazz and I managed to find each other through broken text messages and mutual refusal to spend 10p on calling, we found ourselves walking inside and getting our plastic wristbands taped to our skin coloured action-poles.

Every day of your life you learn a little bit more about the type of person you are. But every (drunken)night of your life, you learn a lot about yourself. For example, Gazz and I both learnt what our exact roles are when out drinking. He has an amazing ability to know exactly what sort of booze you can get, and where is the best place to get it from. This is probably due to his 26 years on this earth, each and every one of them spent searching for little known bitters that you can only pronounce if you’re from Nottinghamshire, and trying to find them at under £2 a pint. A skill he’s honed into Olympic medal winning proportions since moving to London. I however... have an altogether different skill. You take me out with you, because after 5 seconds of setting foot in a venue, I’ll tell you not only where all the toilets are, but the best way to get there (depending on if you want a fast, quiet, or mixed route – or if you simply want to miss that rowdy group of 50+ arse-grabbing hens), I’ll also give you a full run-down of what they’re like, including 1-10 ratings on the cubicles (standard, quantity and privacy); distance between and design of urinals; lack of soap/toilet roll, and tips on how to deal with ‘The Toilet Man’.

It’s important to remember, that this was an awards party, and as such, was filled to bursting point, with free cocktails, free food, important people (such as Danny Wallace who’d been hosting the event and possibly handed a little extra cash to stick around – or perhaps he likes a free bar as much as anyone else), and enough sexy ladies to fill a Nuts calendar. At the point of realising you’re at a free party with a free bar and free Danny Wallace, it’s easy to get caught up in the mayhem... you’d make sure you used all that to your advantage and had a bloody good time wouldn’t you? You would though – and you’d be right to. But we wouldn’t. We learnt that we’re the type of people who, at such a Hugh Hefner-standard knees up as this, act as we always do when in a bar or club; stand nervously in a corner, holding our drinks as close as possible to our chests and making stupid jokes to each other about other people we can see. It was whilst partaking in this particular (I’m now unashamed to say) worthy pastime, that I noticed Wolverine.

Wolverine was a man who, obviously, looked a little bit like Wolverine from the X-men films. That is to say... he had a full-face beard and wanted everyone to know it. He’d also slicked his hair up, and into points at the side – he knew what he was doing. I first saw him, chatting to a lady nearby, it looked like he was doing rather well, but then suddenly turned and bolted. I thought maybe she’d handed him a slap, and he’d fucked her off in pursuit of another target, but it seems not. ‘It’s all part of the game’ he seemed to turn to me and say winking, as she followed seconds after, clutching her bag, coat and both their drinks. To the victor the spoils. Man-spoils. Later on I was lucky enough to enjoy a full-frontal view of Wolverine and said lady’s sofa – I’m not trying to be lewd here, I wasn’t that lucky. He still seemed to be doing rather well (she was still there), but suddenly she upped and off’d (presumably to the bathroom). He waited... WE waited... the whole bar waited... for her return. 10 minutes on, and still no sign. ‘Fuck’ thought us, she’s only fucking DONE ONE! On fucking Wolverine as well! Does she not know who this dude is? This is Wolv-the fucking Bastard-rine! NO ONE does this to him! Or so he seemed to growl inside his clump of thatched man-thistle. He could feel a thousand predators’ eyes on him. Those eyes, once consumed with envy, now filled only with pity, focused like a Bond-targeted laser on his balls. He wasn’t having this! So he leaves. He gets up, walks past us down the steps, and out the bloody door. We turn back to the sofa. The girl still isn’t back, she’s nowhere. She won’t have seen him leave. But what’s that? Sat on the sofa? It’s her bag! And her bloomin’ coat! Those are gonna get grabbed faster than a 9-year-old choir boy walking through the Vatican! I thought to myself, un-politically correctly. Another 10 minutes went by. 10 minutes of tense, heart-in-the-face action of people walking up to sofa... seeing the bag and assuming either someone was on their way back, or it was a trap and Jeremy Beadle would spring out of his grave and through a spring-board sofa cushion. Then, who should show up through the door – it’s only fucking Wolverine. With an attack of conscience, and possibly the inability to pull anyone nicer looking at the bus stop, he’s back! Just in time too, as she strolls back in... completely non-the-wiser, with a huge ‘Thank-you-for-looking-after-my-stuff-for-20-minutes-hug’. But he’s FAR from happy! A couple of stern words in her ear, and he turns on a heel and bolts for the door again. With her following, dragging the back of her dress and her coat through the dirt to be by his side.

Halfway through the night, a lady whose origin was yet to be defined made herself known to Nathan. She didn’t do a very good job – none of us left knowing her name, who she was, who she worked for, or why the fuck she was there. Neither could we work out why the fuck she kept on throwing glasses to the floor like a crazed, jealous potter. Almost as soon as she’d introduced herself, the full to the brim wine glass she was clutching spiralled down, showering her open-toe sandals in claret. Worryingly we were nearby a table holding up enough empties to film a Finish ad, and plenty of fullies too, it was with a mind to safety in which we desired a new spot. The journey didn’t stop her from batting a poor guy’s Becks straight out of his hand and through an inexplicably unnecessary plate glass wall (probably). Nor did it stop her from swinging a couple of cocktails off the top of a piano once we got there.

The most surprising was just before she left, and she grabbed Gazz’ empty glass out of his hand to intently (this time) throw, with all her might, at the floor. ‘We didn’t know she was gonna do it officer’ came our defence to imaginary suddenly appearing bouncers. Sure Gazz told her to throw it on the floor – but we didn’t want her too! All we wanted was for her to laugh, put it down and tell Gazz to fuck off (the usual reaction when he speaks to girls).

And so, the end of our night came in very much the same package with which it started. The two of us without drinks, stood in the corner of the room watching people go about their business. When that business is a waiter brushing up a smashed glass from your feet because you told a crazy girl to throw it on the floor – that’s the end of your night. Free cocktails or no free cocktails.