Kerry Wilkinson [Wilkinson - Close to You (ARC)

Two Sisters (available in the UK and in the US)

The Girl Who Came Back (available in the UK and in the US)

Last Night (available in the UK and in the US)

The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker (available in the UK and in the US)

The Wifes Secret (available in the UK and in the US)

A Face in the Crowd (available in the UK and in the US)

Theres nothing quite like a good hypocrite.

The people surrounding me, not to mention myself, will spend our day-to-day lives telling people about the benefits of moderation. A small glass of wine contains around 120 calories, so moderation is the key. Lets be moderate, people. Nothing wrong with a glass or two here or there, but lets hold back on downing half-a-bottle a night, yeah? Lets not even dream of putting away a full bottle of Asdas own 4-a-bottle white on a Friday night. Thats probably 800 calories right there and all your good work will be for nothing.

All true but none of that stops our room of fitness professionals putting away the booze like a meteor strike has been pencilled in for tomorrow afternoon.

The waiter ambles around to my side of the table and reaches for my glass. His bottle is angled ready to dump another couple of hundred calories, but I place one hand over the rim and wave him away with the other.

Not for me, I say.

His lips twitch into something close to a smirk and then they instantly arch down again. Assuming he works at this hotel most Friday and Saturday nights through November and December, hell have seen this over and over. Grown adults who are one step away from teenagers in a park sharing a bottle of cider.

It really is not for me, though not tonight in any case. My relationship with alcohol is like my mothers with back-to-back episodes of her favourite soaps. A brief taste and Im slumped in a chair, drooling for the rest of the night.

The bloke two seats away from me has no such hang-ups. He manages a leisure centre but has that hipsterish, waxy beard-look about him, as if hed rather be running his own craft brewery. He motions the waiter over and gleefully eyes the white nectar thats emptied into his glass. When its nearly full, he raises it in my direction: To us, he declares.

I waft my almost empty glass of water towards him. To beards, I reply.

He either doesnt hear me, or doesnt care, as he downs half his glass in one go. This is the problem with these sorts of awards dinners the seating plans are thrown together like an expressionists painting of an orgy. Its all a vague collection of limbs and there are dicks everywhere.

Even though its a ceremony and not strictly a Christmas party, it is December so the room is decorated with various wreathes and tinsel. Theres a giant Christmas tree in the corner and twinkly lights zigzagging across the ceiling. There was turkey for dinner, but, now thats cleared away, the booze is flowing and its time for the main event.

Well, almost time. I am fighting back the yawns as the comedian compre is busy making himself laugh, which at least makes it one person whos enjoying the act. Someone else on my table described him as old-school, which is essentially code for a bit sexist. A decade back and there wouldve been a few racist jokes thrown in for the old-timers.

His act is drawing a mix of muted laughs, awkward silences and brainless cackling from a handful of people whove either been lobotomised or had too much to drink. When the comedian reaches for his water, he trips on the mic stand and gets the biggest laugh of the night. Life offers nothing quite as funny as a stranger falling over and then pretending it hasnt happened.

When his act is done, theres an excited hum to the room. This is the reason weve paid 80-a-head for bad food and unfunny comedy.

On the stage at the front, some bloke in a suit is messing around with the PowerPoint display thats being beamed onto the screen. Hes obviously making a hash of it because thats what blokes in suits do. He jabs at a laptop, looks gormlessly to his mate off to the side, holds up both hands, and then has a hushed argument with someone else who ends up plugging in a cable. A slide finally appears, displaying Eighth Annual UK Fitness Professional Awards.

Its not exactly the BAFTAs and, as I sit through a series of prizes being awarded, I start to question a few of my life choices. Ive done some bad things in my time, one in particular, but Ive never stumbled onto a stage and thanked God, the Queen and my Mum for allowing my branch of Total Fitness to win gym chain of the year.

Most people here are of the eye-rolling variety. We know this is a farce, but its also the game we play. For personal trainers like me, winning these sorts of awards means more offers of work, more appearances, better contracts, perhaps even a book deal.

Ive more or less switched off when my best friend, Jane, leans over to me. Shes more excited than I am: Is this your award?

It takes me a second to catch what shes said but, when I look up, I realise that shes right. Jane hasnt said much all evening, although she doesnt really know anyone. I would have come with Andy, but hes busy with his scout troop. That sounds like a euphemism, but isnt there really is a scout troop. I was happy to come by myself, but Jane said shed be my plus-one and that was that. I could have mentioned a midwinter trip to the Antarctic with Piers Morgan and shed have still volunteered to come. I think thats what happens when theres a 16-month-old at home. Any excuse for a night away. She wont say it out loud, but shes definitely missed work since giving up her job to have Norah.

The slide on the screen has changed to read Personal Trainer of the Year and then Seven Nation Army pulses in the background as Steven, the organiser, runs through a list of the nominees. Before today, Id only met him via emails. He has that comic-book airline-pilot-look going on. All neat hair, stiff upper lip and moustachy.