Around this time last year, I was writing a feature for The Independent about a competition called Global Battle Of The Bands, or GBOB. Last year was the inaugural year, and in order to collect enough research material for the article, I attended interminable heats around the country, watching sixth form bands with names like Faraday Dark Space perform a couple of tepid numbers each, before being ushered offstage by burly men in tight-fitting GBOB t-shirts. Over the weeks I saw the most unintentionally hilarious goth band I’ve ever witnessed – who went by the name of Crimson Altar – and a group of 15 year olds extolling the virtues of slugging back tequila in ones car when there’s only “10 more miles to Mexico”, despite the fact that they weren’t old enough to drink, or drive, or indeed travel to Mexico without being accompanied by a parent or guardian. There may not have been much worthwhile music to speak of, but watching dozens of wide-eyed wannabes put on a show was often magnificently entertaining, and often, surprisingly, quite moving. The competition culminated in a 5 hour spectacular at the London Astoria featuring 18 bands from around the world, compered by a man in a spangly shirt who kept screaming “Whaddyathinkofitsofar?” at the audience. Needless to say, it was Top Notch Entertainment.

So, imagine my delight earlier this week when I was called by the GBOB organisers, and asked to be one of the 5 judges of this years final. Clearly they had had someone drop out at the last minute, but that didn’t diminish my enthusiasm. I was to be sitting on a panel alongside famed U2 producer Steve Lillywhite, former Sex Pistol Glen Matlock, a girl called Kate who has sung with the band Royksopp, and a bloke called Nick from Sony Music. With me tacked on the end, it would make an illustrious and wise collection of people.

This year there were to be 24 bands in one night. Now, when I go to a normal gig, if I see even FOUR bands on the bill, I know that the first band will be halfway through their set before I get there, and I’ll have left before the last band has finished because of severe fatigue. But twenty four?? I was told that each band had been allotted 8 minutes each – a length of set which would allow them barely any time to build up a breathless, air-punching climax of the kind that takes Bruce Springsteen around 4 hours. I got there at 6pm, had the usual run-in with the moronic security staff at The Astoria who refused to believe that I was one of the judges – although I suppose didn’t look much like a judge, what with the absence of the regulation white wig and flowing crimson robes. I made my way upstairs, and met up with my fellow panellists. I sat next to Nick, from Sony Music. “Hello,” he said. “Hi,” I replied, and in a suitably Duke Of Edinburgh-style tone, added, “and what do you do?” “Oh,” he replied, “I used to work for Sony Music until a couple of weeks ago, but I used to be in Wang Chung. I was Wang.”

This was exciting. God knows how many times I’ve laughed myself stupid at the notion of a duo calling themselves Wang Chung – which research tells me is Chinese for “perfect pitch” – but I didn’t know that one of them was “Wang” (or perfect) and one of them was “Chung” (or pitch). I excitedly texted my friend Phil. “I’m sitting next to Wang, out of Wang Chung,” I said. 30 seconds or so elapsed, and then I received a reply. “If I was going to be called Wang, or Chung,” he said, “ I’d go for the one that’s not a euphemism for COCK.” Phil had a point. But Nick was excellent company, and as the first few bands came onstage, introduced by a Scandinavian man who looked Vaguely Familiar, we exchanged matey banter and got on as well as could be expected, considering the age gap.

Rather like a sumptuous sticky toffee pudding, the first few mouthfuls – or in this case, er, bands – went down very easily. Mea, from the Rhondda in South Wales, were that hilarious breed of band which consists of 3 overweight, hideous men, plus a divine, voluptuous beauty who they clearly begged and begged to join their band after they saw her do karaoke one night in Pontypridd. We were equipped with notes on each band, and the ones for Mea informed us that they have been playing live constantly since December 2004, which must surely take its toll on even the most committed of musicians.

A jazz funk band from Mexico had a singer wearing a poncho which she whipped off Bucks Fizz style after about 4 minutes, while their bass player slapped upon an instrument with about 18 strings, re-inforcing my view that the more strings there are on the bass guitar, the worse the band is. A sullen group from the Faroe Islands then surged out in front with a couple of passable Joy Division imitations. The singer, Hans Marius ZIska, apparently used to be in a band called Flux, whose single, “Mr Headless”, spent months – MONTHS, I tell you – at number one in the Faroe Islands Top 40. Extraordinary. The singer in the Danish band, meanwhile, was so infuriated by the lack of audience response that he took off his guitar, and marched up and down the stage, clapping his hands above his head. There was still no response, so after 30 seconds he was forced to put his guitar back on and finish the song, to a dribble of applause.

We weren’t even a third of the way through, and it was already 9pm. Canada’s Unit 731 took the stage, and the over-enthuiastic singer tried to ascertain if we were ready to receive them. “Are you ready to party?” he asked. “Are you ready to have fun with The Unit?” There was a general murmur of “Uh… Mm.” “Who wants this t-shirt,” he yelled, brandishing a t-shirt. “I don’t know, what size is it,” I shouted back. The bands continued to come and go – the American college rock band whose gimmick was to have a singer wearing plus fours and occasionally doing The Charleston. The Ukranian band who expelled all their anger at the political upheaval in their homeland by screaming constantly for 8 fantastic minutes. The Russian band, who only just made it to the final after their guitarist was arrested on touchdown at Heathrow on suspicion of molesting a member of the cabin crew. And the German band, who could have called themselves anything, anything at all, but on one day about 5 years ago were sitting around, when one of them said – in German – I know, how about we call ourselves “Circle Of Grin”? And, incredibly, was met with complete consensus.

At about a quarter to one in the morning, it was finally time for us judges to go onstage and present the award, and a cheque for a not insubtantial $100,000, to the winner. Myself, Glen Matlock, Steve Lillywhite, the bloke from Wang Chung and the girl from Royksopp stood backstage, waiting for the strains of Carmina Burana to peter out. “It’s like the Eurovision Song Contest on crack,” said Steve. “Most of this lot would get Nul Points,” added Glen. At which point the Scandinavian compere, a rock derelict who made Iggy Pop look freshfaced, turned around. “That was me,” he said. “Sorry?” said Steve. “That was me,” he repeated. “I was the first to score Nul Points. For Norway.” And it was him. I recognised him. Jan Teigen, the man who stunned Europe in 1978 with his appalling song “Mil Etter Mil” was now about to pass on the wooden spoon of musical history to an Irish band, Kopek, who will now fade unceremoniously into obscurity – albeit $100,000 richer.