Yesterday evening, I went reviewing pubs in Holland Park. With the Northern Line down, a rendezvous of 8pm and a working day ending at 5.30pm, I didn't have time to go home first, so I walked it. From Vauxhall Bridge to the A40, via Victoria, Hyde Park Corner and Marble Arch, which in retrospect wasn't the quickest route, but that last thing you want to be doing on a Tuesday evening is getting lost around the back streets of Knightsbridge, it's an extremely violent area. I kept myself amused during the journey by listening to De Futura by Magma and imagining assembling a dance troupe of overweight men to perform some kind of crazy space-dance with De Futura as the soundtrack – which would obviously have the beneficial side effect of getting us all shaped up for summer. It's an interesting thought, and one that I may return to, but not for long, don't worry.

Anyway, I got to Holland Park eventually, and marvelled at the opulent dwellings, chic boutiques and high-class living. In Holland Park, for example, the streets are, quite literally, paved. A planned 4-pub spectacular was scaled down to two, when I realised my diet has decreased my tolerance to alcohol quite alarmingly. At the second pub, we got talking to the assistant manager, who, in the course of the conversation, revealed that she has a degree in Russian, but now works in a pub (clearly) and desperately wants to get into the music business.

By that stage I was too full of Joie de Vivre (1998 vintage, I think) to ward her off, but goodness me, I thought, people really do want to work in the music business, don't they. Even people with degrees in Russian. The girl in question would actually have been a perfect candidate for the job that myself and subsequently had with Nick Hobbs, which involved liasing with (for which read shouting very slowly in English at) a load of Russian gig promoters, explaining that if they don't get 24 bottles of Snapple backstage for the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, they're going to be very angry and may, god forbid, not even perform.

Of course, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers would surely have done the gig if they hadn't had their bottles of Snapple. Motorhead will play, with a little persuasion, whether or not they are provided with the 10 bottles of Absolut vodka that's listed on their rider. David Bowie will not let the absence of an industrial strength carrot juicer in his dressing room affect his performance. But working in the music business revolves entirely around making other people believe that if small luxuries do not appear, the performer will throw a hissy fit. David Thomas, who we used to manage, asks for a bottle of Remy Martin to be provided backstage, and I used to jump through all manner of hoops to try and make it happen – right up until the point that he revealed that he carried a bottle around in his bag, just in case. Famous musicians are surrounded by layer upon layer of protective padding, managers, agents, who are desperate to stop them getting into contact with anything remotely unpleasant. If you carry on treating them this way, they end up believing that nothing is wrong, and eventually, that hissy fit – which was at one stage merely threatened and purely imaginary – does actually become a distinct possibility. So let them be. They're human beings. Let them work it out for themselves. We don't really need a music business, do we?

This was a short extract from “The Music Business? Tell Me About It” by Rhodri Marsden, 1186pp, £44.99 from all good bookstores.

Oh, by the way, , have you ever warded anyone off?