I'm glad I never worked in advertising. I have friends in advertising. They look tired.
Last night was the, um, Interactive Marketing, uh, something awards. I don't really know, but braying Brians and strapless Sarahs were all delighted to receive a small metal brick for their labours in promoting expensive things to other rich Londoners.
You can tell we didn't win, can't you?
Anyway, it was interesting going to an awards ceremony. It was on a vast scale, where, at the other end of the hall, above a cloud of cigar smoke stood Andrew Marr, talking to himself.
He'd initially come along to present the prizes, but, drowned out by champagne corks and heartiness, he was reduced to a strange mumbling statue in a corner. Occasionally, his anecdotage would waft over: "... I tell you that dog controls England... Do you have any nails... And then Miss Caplan squats down naked over the entrails..."
We were sat next to a table of successful public schoolboys. Now, I'm a failed public schoolboy - you can tell. In quiet moments, I look miserable. One of the deep joys of my life is that rugby is no longer compulsory. But I'm never quite sure it won't be again. One reason I'll never vote Conservative. Just in case.
Anyway, the table next to me was awash with braces, swept-back hair and hearty hardi-har laughing. Wine was drunk, pushed over, or thrown aside in favour of bizarre brandy-Baileys combinations. Uxorious waiters smarmed over them with bread and biscuits, and endless boozeucopia.
Our wine waiter just refused to serve us. And kept demanding money for drinks we'd already paid for. Or, he'd come and take away our water jug.
That said, I had a magnificent evening. There was a live band, who insisted on performing Blues versions of Scissor Sisters tracks. There was merriment. And, of course, we set our tablecloth on fire.