With all the fuss regarding AOL buying the HuffPo and Arianna Huffington taking over as editor in chief of all content, it’s easy to forget that writing for TechCrunch isn’t actually my real job. My real job is writing books about myself.

I’m right in the middle of that yawning quiet period between filing the manuscript for The Upgrade and the publication date in May. During that time, my publicist has urged me – on pain of promotional death – not to do any personal press. Generally I am happy to be under her thumb: she understands her job way better than I do. But every so often I can’t help myself.

Take, for example, the email I received at the end of last year from a feature writer at Loaded magazine. Yep, Loaded.

Would I be interested in being profiled by them about my life living in hotels. My 30-year-old (at the time) self was unconvinced : “Loaded? I’m a 30 year old author, not a 19 year old glamour model – what business do I have in the pages of Loaded?” My 18-year-old self, however, had already replied to the email. Fuck Yeah.

And so, on the morning of my 31st birthday, I opened the door to my London hotel room and welcomed Loaded’s Sam Rowe, photographer Vincent Dolman, a couple of other Loaded staffers and – oh yes – the very lovely Prudence.

With Robert Loch sitting patiently in the corner, waiting for lunch and laughing his arse off, the next two hours were spent… well… just look

David Rowe’s full piece is here.

My 18 year old self just high-fived my 30-year-old self, while my 31-year-old self is trying hard to pretend he’s not even slightly pleased with himself.