When your girlfriend invites you to go on a free trip to Henley Royal Regatta for the day as the guest of a gin company, what on earth does one say? I said “What did you say? Gin? Obviously.” On meeting at Paddington station at 11am we were handed first class train tickets, which we marvelled at, holding them gently in our hands, examining them closely, rather like a QVC presenter might coo over a piece of exclusive tanzanite jewellery. Of course, on getting to the train, there was only one first class carriage which was already stuffed with freeloading journalists, so we wedged ourselves in the baggage rack and waited for the gin to arrive.

Rail-travelling residents of Henley-on-Thames must be persistently annoyed at having to change at Twyford, but personally I relish changing at Twyford. Already I was marvelling at the posh, who barked down their mobile phones at ear-splitting volumes and treated their fellow passengers like gatecrashers at an engagement party. After disembarking at Henley we walked for 15 minutes to a marquee on the banks of the Thames, where apparently there was due to be some rowing, or something, but yes, gin.

Readers will be pleased to hear that the barmen didn’t skimp on the gin. Enormous jugs of gin and tonic were handed out, and we had a guess at the recipe, which seemed to involve filling a jug with equal parts gin and tonic. We sat back and relaxed in the sun, continuing to marvel at the posh, who sauntered past, with that all-pervading confidence that only the ownership of a French holiday villa can bring. “If a bomb dropped here, right now,” said Jenny, “there would be opportunities in fields such as banking.”

After an hour, we’d had enough gin, and took to giggling at the canapés, which started off fairly sensibly, with sushi and tempura, but then veered into the realms of surreality as a succession of doll-sized main courses came out on trays – pizzas 4cm in diameter, Lilliputian burgers that would fail to satisfy the appetite of Lilliputians, and most memorably, tiny cones of newspaper in which could be found a minuscule goujon of fish and 3 tiny french fries. Cute.

I then had to race back to London for a Scritti Politti rehearsal. I fell asleep on the train, woke up in Paddington with a hangover, and gingerly made my way to the rehearsal studio where I struggled manfully with playing 16 keyboard parts at once. I’m like Jean Michel Jarre, really, except my own music hasn’t been used in the soundtrack to the film Gallipoli starring Mel Gibson – at least, not to my knowledge – and I’ve never been married to Charlotte Rampling for 20 years, at least, not to my knowledge. You’d remember stuff like that, surely, wouldn’t you.