Out of the frying pan, into the fire

MsMarmitelover's underground restaurant

Just over a week ago something incredibly exciting happened. I was invited to my very first PR event; a private screening of Eat Pray Love held at one of London's notorious secret supper clubs. 

Hopping off the tube at Kilburn station I wasn't sure what lay in store for me. Knowing no one, and having never attended one of these events I wasn't quite sure of the etiquette. Should I down the champers upon arrival for some dutch courage or remain sober and aloof? Should I join other journalists' conversations and risk interrupting or stand in the corner like a loner? I felt like a fraud - the only non-bonafide journo there, but then I reminded myself I'd earned my place at the table... quite literally. 

Still deep in thought I arrived at the venue feeling perplexed. From the outside it looked like your average London Victorian semi. Before I spun myself around to look for the real venue my eye caught a tiny note on the doorbell telling me I was at the right place - MsMarmitelover's underground restaurant. 

As the door opened I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. A corridor led through to a tiny, quaint dining room which looked as though it had been converted from a well-used family lounge just hours before. Journalists in suits and glamourous outfits stood around sipping champagne and networking - looking very relaxed in their surroundings compared the nervous wreck I felt. 

The famous kitchen...

A waitress dressed in a Victorian-style apron handed me a much-needed glass of champers and led me through to Msmarmitelover's amazing kitchen (which looked like something from a real life dolls house), where our menu was being prepped. There I met the infamous MsMarmitelover herself - a quirky, fun and bubbly host who talked me through her rise to internet stardom through her popular food blog; before opening the UK's first underground supper club (The Underground Restaurant) and founding the secret supper club movement. 

A product of the recession, the underground restaurant (or secret supper club) movement thrived where most businesses failed. The aftermath of the crash saw the birth of a brand new target market - those who still had a craving for fine dining  - but on the cheap. Fascinated, and feeling left out at having never heard of this apparent craze, I googled it on my return home. Not only was the internet awash with websites dedicated to the supper club revolution, there were also over 70 restaurants in London alone - one being at the end of my road! It seems they aren't quite as 'secret' as I'd first thought.

Going back to the event and numerous glasses of champagne later, I managed to pull myself together just in time for our three-course dinner to be served. Being an Eat Pray Love DVD screening, international fare was on the menu; and the we sampled cuisine from Italy, India and Bali. Pizza, curry and pineapple with ice cream to be more exact. Having dived for a table containing the group who looked most like they'd tolerate me, I felt slightly more at ease. And it turned out I was in good company. A writer from OK Magazine online. The editor of Sofeminine.co.uk. A lifestyle producer. I barely noticed the film was playing as we chatted, laughed, tweeted and hash-tagged frantically throughout our delicious starters, mains and desserts. 

Three courses, ten glasses of wine, eight Twitter followers and two new Facebook friends later, it was time to call it a night. My anxiety long gone, as I walked back towards the tube station I wondered why I'd been so worried. I realised my terror was based upon not being accepted as a 'real' journalist, but seeing MsMarmitelover's success has only strengthened my feelings of belief in myself. The digital revolution has provided a opportunity for those who  may never have got their lucky break otherwise - and I plan to grab it with both hands. After all, success is what you make of it.

X-ploitation?

A grand entrance... the X Factor judges

It's the hottest show of the moment. Nearly a third of the British population tune in every weekend to watch it. Everyone's talking about it, with the nation poring over every single detail from Dannii's wrinkle-free forehead to Simon's waistband and Louis' (fast) receding hairline.

It can only be the X Factor. After hitting screens in 2004, Simon Cowell's brainchild has fast become a TV favourite, regularly raking in the kind of viewing figures not seen since Eastenders' Den divorced Angie in the late 80s. In a digital generation where we are inundated by choice and variety of media channels that is no mean feat.

Each weekend, viewers are treated to a drama-fuelled double dose of the X Factor spectacle; complete with feuding finalists, warring judges, catty comments and the kind of bitching that makes the dorm of an all-girls boarding school look tame. Throw in a few sob stories, a lot of crocodile tears and a weekly fash-off between the female judges and it's a clear recipe for success.

And it's not all over after the final credits. Before the last wannabe has even finished their performance bloggers in their thousands have already begun typing frantically about Cheryl's latest outfit. Twitter goes crazy with X Factor hash-tagging and the show dominates tabloid headlines all week long.

Come monday, offices nationwide are buzzing with news from the previous evening's episode - with the men getting equally as carried away - and as bitchy - as the women. And bookies' cash registers are constantly ringing with fans placing bets on who will win the contest.

The X Factor brand is just one big PR machine, with stories churning out of the contestants' shared house at an alarming rate. We've heard it all; finalists found in bed together, arrests for drug offences, arguments over who gets the best song choice - the list is endless.

Catapulted from being nobodies to the most famous people in Britain overnight, the wannabes are subjected to a media circus; with some forced to deal with lynch mobs of press and paparazzi hell bent on their downfall. Readers are told that a 'source close to the show' has leaked some juicy gossip... but it's more than likely the 'source' also doubles up as the show's publicist.

But what is it about this simple concept that has a nation hooked? It is, undoubtedly, the drama. There's nothing Brits love more. The show would be nothing without it; and contestants who attract the least controversial column inches are quickly booted out.

Let's put things into perspective; as entertaining as the show is, there's something slightly unsavoury about the audience being given a chance to play God. We all forget, whilst caught up in the drama, that this is people's lives we're dealing with.

Each week, hearts are broken and dreams shattered as another finalist faces the axe. Their 15 minutes of fame over, they are forced to go back to the lives they led before... never forgetting how they once came within an inch of fame and fortune.

In the meantime, Simon Cowell and ITV are laughing all the way to the bank, making millions off the back of the finalists, who are reportedly paid peanuts to appear in the show. Something seems morally amiss here. These fat cats don't care about the individuals - they only care about how much publicity they generate and, ultimately, how much cash they can make out of them. With contestants such as this year's villains Katie and Wagner kept in purely for entertainment value, it feels more like a circus than a serious talent show.

The whole thing reeks of exploitation. The problem is, the show's bosses are perfectly aware most people would chuck their grandmother under a bus to get into the final 12... meaning they can get away with whatever they want and the whole sordid affair continues year upon year.

So, the show will go on. And we'll all just carry on watching it.