It was amazing. I was in Led Zeppelin, and we were desperately trying to round up the members of the band before a big stadium gig by driving around to each member’s house in an Addison Lee people carrier. Jimmy Page lived in a semi-detached dwelling in a 70s cul-de-sac somewhere in Hertfordshire. We turned up at his house, and we all got out while the people carrier zoomed off to pick up Robert Plant, who supposedly lived around the corner. Then the taxi driver called me a few minutes later to say that he’d got lost, and he needed to know Jimmy’s address urgently. I asked Jimmy what his address was. He said with a gnarled, toothless smile: “I’m f*cked if I know, Rhodri” and fell over. Then the phone rang, shaking me violently out of my fantasy – it was Jenny. “Sorry, were you asleep?” she asked. “Not only was I asleep, I was in Led Zeppelin,” I replied.

I went out reviewing pubs last night for Time Out with 30milesormore. Many boozers have enjoyed a long, unbroken run of being featured in the Pubs & Bars Guide, and it’s one of my jobs as a reviewer to quickly assess whether its inclusion is still merited, tempting though it might be to write an incisive and mercilessly witty 150-word slagging. Sadly, 4 of the 6 we visited last night fell vaguely into this category, although two of those will probably scrape in just for being downright weird. The Cockpit, on St Andrews Hill near Blackfriars, conjures up the very essence of 1978, if that’s your bag – right from the sounds of the seventies selection on the jukebox, to an archaic electric radiator bolted to the wall, to the hoarse, elderly, greasy landlord. But clearly this is not the result of any attempt to sit down and create a 70s throwback pub – it’s just been 30 long years of proudly putting off any kind of refurbishment. One table had a vicar sitting at it, along with two of his colleagues. One colleague got up and walked to the bar. “Next time,” wheezed the landlord in his direction, “bring your empties back, would you?” “Sorry?” “Next time, bring your empties back to the bar,” he choked for a second time. “Sorry, didn’t catch that,” said the customer. “Bring your EMPTY GLASSES back to the bar next time,” he coughed, red in the face. “Sorry, mate, can’t hear you,” came the reply, at which point the landlord gave him an almighty smack around the head with the palm of his hand, and they both burst into peals of laughter. Incredible.

Then we went to the Old Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street, an ancient pub which was apparently frequented by Samuel Johnson at some point. In fact, blurb on the outside of the building indicates that Johnson himself may have been known as “The Cheese”, which is a great nickname for one of the regulars – ”anyone seen The Cheese?” – “The Cheese been in, at all?” – “What’s The Cheese drinking?” (etc etc.) Anyway, we walked in to an incredibly dingy room and asked for two halves of stout, at which point a waitress appeared with a plate of half eaten lemon meringue pie, looked forlornly at her colleague behind the bar, and said with a sigh: “Is he in the cellar?”

Magic.