When trying to make ends meet as an aspiring stand-up Bridget Christie found herself working on the Daily Mail diary column for five years, and how did she find the experience? The title of her latest show, My Daily Mail Hell, gives a big clue. Will Gore spoke to Christie ahead of her appearance at the Riverhouse arts centre.

Tell us about the show

I worked there for five years and it is about all the weird things that happened to me while I was there. It is not hugely political, it’s more of a personal story about someone not belonging somewhere.

How did you end up working for the Daily Mail?

I started doing stand-up at the same time that I had joined a temp agency. They sent me off to the Mail for a week but they offered me a job almost straight away. I had to arrange the diary and if there weren’t enough journalists they would send me along to the parties and events. I was meeting Antonio Banderas one night and then performing new material to three people in a room above a pub the next.

How did you find the job?

You have no qualms about asking strangers the kind of questions you wouldn’t ask your own family but I was like Columbo – mumbling at the floor and feeling awkward - except when he did it it was part of a cunning plan. Because of this sometimes, the people would sometimes feel comfortable with me and give me a good story.

And what about those who didn’t take kindly to you?

When I met Jack Vettriano, the Scottish artist, I thought he was going to punch me in the face because when the Mail did a story on him about his marriage breaking up they had used a really bad photo of him.

You also had a run in with one of your heroes Gene Wilder, didn’t you?

When I met him at a book signing he was totally expressionless and it was almost as if he didn’t have any personality. I thought it was extraordinary so when it came my turn to ask a question I told him that on screen he was hilarious but that in real life it didn’t seem like he could ever be funny. I wasn’t trying to be clever, I just said what came into my head. He didn’t say a word and his face was completely blank as he walked over and started strangling me. It was going on for ages and no one said or did anything. I started playing along, saying: ”Help! Gene Wilder’s strangling me!” but that didn’t get a laugh. Eventually he just went back to his seat and carried on signing his book, without saying a word to me.

Bridget Christie, My Daily Mail Hell, Riverhouse, Manor Road, Walton-on-Thames, April 23, 8pm, £11, riverhousebarn.co.uk, 01932 253354