Last night I benefited once again from my girlfriend's status in the magazine world. I turned up to a swanky Hyde Park hotel, was taken by air-conditioned people carrier to Hampton Court, fed with champagne, lobster, summer pudding and dolcelatte, then entertained for 90 minutes by Brian Wilson as the sun set over the castle. Now I will spend 800 words complaining about it.

Not really.

On the way home, there was a chap in the car who I hadn't been introduced to. In my slightly boisterous state I asked him his name, shook him vigorously by the hand, and asked him which publication he worked for. He revealed that he used to be at The Observer, but now he's at Time Out. “Ah, one of the new guard,” said Jenny. “Kind of,” he replied. I haven't written anything for Time Out magazine for ages, and would like to, so I sat there, wondering how I could bring this up in conversation.

Then ensued a discussion about food writers who specialise in booze. Someone asked if we knew of someone called [something like] Andrew Smolisky, who writes about whiskey. I didn't. I asked if he had opted to write about whiskey because of the reassuring way it rhymed with his surname. There was muted laughter. But that didn't satisfy me. I asked them all if they knew of Andrew Modka, who was particularly knowledgable about Russian spirits. For some reason I decided to pursue this, attempting to rhyme various surnames with drinks. By the time I'd tried rhyming Prochnik with Horlicks, there was a deathly silence in the car, except for Jenny, quietly saying “Rhodri, it's not working.” She was right. She changed the subject. “So, what do you do at Time Out?”, she asked our travelling companion. “I'm the editor,” he said. Oh. Oh dear. In a damage limitation exercise, I shut the f*ck up.

Apart from that, it was a wonderful evening. But let's face it, Brian Wilson is rubbish. I'm a massive fan of The Beach Boys, and Mr Wilson has written some of the most beautiful songs of the modern era. But his shows are merely an exercise in covering up how rotten he has become at singing, and how he's unable to always read his lyrics off an autocue. I say this with much love; I'm happy to watch his marvellous band, and to pay tribute to his songwriting genius through the medium of applause and whistling. But can we please just all admit that he's really, really bad? I can't help feeling he'd rather be at home with his feet up. In his sandpit.

*

Someone just walked past on the street below and let loose a massive sneeze, which consisted of the noise “YOUSP!” I didn't immediately recognise it as a sneeze, as it sounded like someone furiously beginning the sentence “You spilled my pint!” Or “You Spanish, you're all the same!” Or “You spared the rod, but you spoiled the child, didn't you, you blithering idiot.”