So, the Nationwide Mercury Prize. At 5.30pm yesterday afternoon I emerged from a Mercedes onto the forecourt of the at the Grosvenor Park Hotel on Park Lane, to the noise of dozens-upon-dozens of camera shutters, and cries of “over here, yes, over here, look over here please, yes you, fatso.” The life of a rock star, surely. In fact, my real arrival at the Grosvenor Park Hotel had been three hours earlier, sweating like an overworked pig after lugging a bag full of reasonably smart clothes from Green Park tube station. Then, after a rehearsal, we were ushered down corridors, out of a small back door into a side street, and into a waiting Mercedes which then made a 50-yard journey round the corner. Magnificent.

Hot Chip should have won, really, particularly because they’re so blimmin’ nice. Zoe Rahman was delightful, also, partly because she gave me a free CD. You could barely tell that she was battling with double pneumonia, as she didn’t stop smiling all evening. Richard Hawley, by contrast, didn’t smile at all. During the dress rehearsal, when he’d finished his song, Jools Holland greeted him on mic, and asked how he was. “I’m f*cked,” he replied.

I’m not sure that I’ve been on TV before. It was only BBC4 so maybe that doesn’t count, but it felt very real, with the glare of the lights on my shine-free forehead – thanks to several hours spent in make-up.

We gave a good account of ourselves, and Green accepted his nomination award by saying “this’ll look great in the attic.” Then off the stage and to our waiting table, where Geoff and Jessica from Rough Trade had kindly left us some booze, which we sampled vigorously while waiting for our dinner, which was to be “escabeche of halibut”. I’m not sure what escabeche means – maybe it just means “piece” – but I think it’s my new favourite word, which I’ll use in any food-related situation. “Would you like mustard with that?” “Oooh, just an escabeche.”

The Arctic Monkeys won, which was something of a relief, as if it had been anyone else the rest of the field might have had reason to feel aggrieved. But when the runaway favourites scoop the prize, you can just shrug your shoulders and finish your escabeche of halibut. In retrospect, though, maybe I should have followed egremont’s advice, going absolutely mental, kicking over the tables and punching Edith Bowman.

The party went on late into the night, fuelled by repeated sweepings of the dining area to discover half-drunk bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape. Someone came up to me and said “are you Rhodri,” and I said yes, and she said “I went to school with you,” and she was right, I did. Mark Radcliffe told us a really amusing anecdote involving Benylin, but I can’t remember anything about it. At about 2am I wandered outside, and a man offered to take me home for £25, which he must have done, as I’m here, although I don’t remember getting any money out, or indeed buying bagels, which are also here. Tonight: a quiet evening in.