Pub quizzes – and specifically pop quizzes, because they're inexplicably but undeniably more important and bring out everyone's competitive streak – are not the best situations in which to socialise. I sat four feet away from all evening, our exchange limited to “I'll see you on Saturday, then.” “Yes, you will.” I spotted my chum Jez at the far side of the pub at 8.45pm, and didn't speak to him until we were both safely on the Northern Line at 11.30pm. and I had a lengthy pre-quiz discussion about our predicament as outgoing but deeply unconfident writers, who imagine that every email we send and phone call we make to newspaper and magazine editors sends them into spasms of intolerant fury. I was embarking on outlining a particular aspect of this neurosis when the quizmaster shouted “OK! It's time for the music quiz!” I looked at with big, sad eyes and said “I'm going to have to shut up now, aren't I?” “Yes, you are,” he replied, his Mitsubishi Uniball pen already hovering above the crisp white answer sheet.

I was a supportive but generally useless team member, my sole contributions being a) knowing that George Michael's album is currently at number 1, and b) knowing that the British backing vocalist on some 1992 Metallica album was blonde, and popular in the 60s. Sadly I plumped for Dusty Springfield, and it was in fact Marianne Faithfull. “Well, you were on the right lines,” said Tim, but I knew deep down that if I'd got it, we could well have been sipping the finest Veuve Cliquot champagne rather than trying to palm off the 3rd prize – “Best Of Punk Vol XVIII” – on our other team-mates.

Having said all that, it was thoroughly enjoyable. I know more today than I did yesterday, which is more than can be said for yesterday.

Earlier I was attracted to the window when huge hailstones were slamming against it. Outside, on the window sill, was a bee, wondering what in mother of hell was going on. Poor thing. For one fleeting moment I pondered climate change, and what it would mean for our children. By which I don't mean my own children, as I don't have any children. If you don't have any children, I don't mean your children, either, although I'm not discounting the possibility that you, or indeed I, might have them in the future. Perhaps together, who knows? Oh, now I've got distracted, and Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall has just started frying pineapple halves in butter on the UK Food channel. Stupid bastard.