I wandered up to the Boogaloo in Highgate with the intention of participating in the weekly music quiz. Actually, I didn't just wander, I circumnavigated most of NW1, NW5 and N19 as I had more than 2 hours to kill. Tufnell Park is so beautiful in April, I find. I still managed to get there first, closely followed by . Shane McGowan was slumped in our “usual” seat (I'm sure he's done far more man-hours on it than I have) after having drunk what looked like 1/3 pint of Guinness, but was probably 9 and 1/3. We used this sorry sight as a springboard into a conversation which touched on databases, death metal, and other things beginning with d. Next time: elephants, ebola and Ernie, The Fastest Milkman in The West, I guess.

, , and then arrived. Nick and I mused on a horrendous situation where we'd get introduced to someone at a party, and our opening conversational gambit would be “hi! So, what's your user name?” Or even worse, at a job interview. The tragic thing is, it will actually happen one day.

Our team thus consisted of 6 people, 1 more than officially sanctioned by the rotund quizmaster. I gracefully bowed out, anticipating the arrival of a very tired girlfriend who would immediately want to leave. So I sat on the fringes of the team, unable to participate but occasionally muttering words of encouragment like “You're doing well,” “Nice work, team”, or occasionally hissing “It's f*cking Squarepusher, now write it down.” Aforementioned partner actually ended up rolling in an hour and a half late as the quiz came to a close, much to my distress, and I apologise to those of you who had to watch me nervously pacing the pub while imagining her pinned under the wheels of a Norbert Dentressangle juggernaut. She had attended a party thrown by a team of bartenders who were launching their “spring / summer collection” (for crying out loud.) White peach will feature strongly, if any of you are interested, and Tennents Extra is most definitely on the way out. She also came back with gossip re Nigella Lawson, which I can't tell you. No I can't. No. I promised.

As usual, , , , and (this LiveJournal thing is really getting horribly out of hand) won. Bernard Butler's team came 2nd, but somehow ended up with the champagne after came triumphantly back to his table after choosing the prize of a blues CD compilation, no doubt to the open-mouthed horror of his team mates.

A bad, bad night's sleep – allergy rearing its head again – and so I got up at 5am to watch a freshly received Todd Rundgren video compilation of appearances on Whistle Test. In one clip which features him playing with Utopia, he slowly climbs to the top of a giant hollow pyramid while playing a histrionic guitar solo, reaching the climax as he stands astride the apex, with an enormous model of a Sphinx peering out through the whole ludicrous spectacle. The crowd went wild, I just rubbed my eyes while muttering “bloody idiot”.

This morning I received an email from someone who saw the G2 piece on Monday, who I was at school with when I was 9. She was my first crush, after a teacher made us sit together against our will due to disruptive behaviour. I knew it was a crush, as one day, when I made the umpteenth trip down the road to her house and pressed the doorbell, her mother answered it and said “oh, not you again.” These words have rung on, down the years, as I've called round to see various girls I've taken a shine to. “Oh, not you again.” Yep. [shuffles feet.] Hello. Sorry. Is coming out to play?”