Yesterday: Early afternoon. Back to the Boogaloo for a solo photoshoot with Time Out. It’s for some kind of feature on London Scene types. I think.

I pose on the pub roof, near the cage of Mr O’Boyle’s homing pigeon. Mr O’B has told me he genuinely uses the pigeon to send messages to North London acquaintances. I presume he takes care to ensure the venue’s two black cats are kept well away from the bird. Otherwise, that would really put… no, I refuse to finish that sentence.

I pose with a cigarette at the photographer’s request, purely for aesthetic reasons. It’s untrue to say I’ve given the habit up entirely, but it’s also untrue to say I smoke regularly; this was my first for weeks.

“I have to say, you look a bit like David Sylvian”, says the photographer as he snaps away. An all too regular observation, but I don’t mind in the slightest. I find it easy to be gracious and polite, as long as I’m not drunk at the time. As we’ll see in a few paragraphs’ time.

I give a smattering of words to Ms B from Time Out to go with the photo. She emails me back, “Are you really 35 or is that a typo? Surely you’re 23?” It’s enough to make one take out a year’s subscription.

Late Afternoon – toss off a 150 word album review for Plan B. The band is Tilly And The Wall. A slight but jolly sing-song band from Omaha, Nebraska whose main distinguishing feature is having a be-tutu’d tap dancer rather than a drummer. The tutu and dancing element is, as you’d imagine, rather compromised on the audio recording. But the songs are fun enough. Very B52’s at times.

Evening – to Trash Palace in Wardour Street for the Popjustice £20 Music Prize. Popjustice is a colourful website for grown adults who enjoy current chart pop music, without being too serious about it. Clearly influenced by the classic Smash Hits style, the tone is just right: affectionate for the acts and the music they like, sardonic without being too obvious about it. I particularly like the inspired little touches they’ve featured in the past, like the Pop Protractor of Doom. This is where they maintain that on a certain type of sleeve design used for many female pop singers – an airbrushed close-up photo with sans serif text set at an angle – the angle itself is an indication of the artist’s state of mind. They conclude that, “in these difficult pop times, an angle of 30° or lower should be allowed.” This is soberly illustrated with respective diagrams, like a GCSE maths question.

Such commendable, original silliness is conveyed in the Popjustice live contest tonight, essentially comprising a number of the website’s London-based readers arguing in a bar. Most of them are wearing casual t-shirts and jeans: it’s hardly the Oscars. But I decide to dress like it’s the Oscars anyway, and turn up in a white suit. I’m not really a big enough fan of current pop to fit in here, white suit or not, but I am keen to satisfy my curiosity about the evening.

The whole event is a response to the more distinguished Mercury Music Prize, which is taking place at the same time. This awards the best British album in the last 12 months, with the winner receiving £20,000. Popjustice’s award, naturally believing that the single is mightier than the LP, is for the best British single, with a prize of £20. It’s all very jokey of course, but does make the fair point that £20 is “a figure no more or less arbitrary than £20,000”. And in turn, it’s suggesting that the Mercurys are a bit pointless and stuffy, aimed as they are at the dinner-party set. Certainly they practice a degree of genre tokenism: there’s always a few folk or jazz acts, rather insincerely included out of some vague intention of eclecticism.

If I were one of these remit-filling genre acts, I’d feel uneasy about accepting the nomination if it wasn’t for the added publicity my record would be getting. Publicity is the only real justification for music awards, ideally applied where it would do some good. A cover sticker with the words “Winner” and “Award”, or even “Nominee” and “Award” must help sales of an otherwise sidelined artist.

And not just sales. There’s a public service element, showcasing ways of being. I’ve always maintained that modern music should be about Otherness of image as much as the music itself. Last year’s Mercury winner, Antony, was so unusual-looking, that his increased exposure can only have helped the tenderly strange out there feel less alone. So I felt that particular Mercury award was entirely justified. Last night though, the Mercury went to the Arctic Monkeys, an already over-exposed group of entirely unremarkable-looking young men playing rather non-descript, Dad-pleasing, punky guitar rock. What signals are being sent out here? If this is the best that British music gets, God help us all, frankly.

The line-up for the Popjustice prize is far more interesting, the process mostly consisting of arguing over which is better of two singles, through a series of elimination rounds. Two favourites of mine are the melancholic robot-pop singles from Ladytron (“Destroy Everything You Touch”) and Goldfrapp (“Number One”), though these are knocked out early on, deemed as not quite poppy and memorable enough compared to, say, Lily Allen’s “Smile”. Fair enough. It doesn’t help that when I stand up to say something in favour of Ladytron, I can’t even get the name of their song right.

In fact, when editing this diary entry a day later, I get the Ladytron song title wrong yet again. “Destroy Everything You Own”, indeed.

However, I still feel both tracks wipe the floor with anything by the Arctic Monkeys.

For a round between Matt Willis and Will Young, the result is decided by two judges listening to each song on headphones while plotting a line on a cardboard graph. The horizontal axis is Duration Of Song, the vertical is Aceness Of Song. Each graph is then cut out along the wavering line, and the resulting jagged pieces of cardboard are then weighed on a portable electronic scales. The heaviest piece of cardboard decides the best single. Frankly, I think this sort of activity is far more inspired than the records involved. Though I do quite like the Will Young song (“Who Am I”). He lost to Mr Willis, by the way.

The winning single is “Biology” by Girls Aloud, which I have to concede is utterly superb, even though the song structure is all over the shop. It sounds like about five singles in one.

However, I’m appalled that Muse are in second place. Muse are essentially an overwrought Radiohead tribute band fronted by a dead weasel, whose record company has now forced them to crowbar their whining, ugly drivel beneath Ms Britney Spears’s chord changes. I still think they’re dull and dreary and awful, and now think they’re dishonest on top of it. Luckily for them, an enormous amount of people who should know better have fallen hook line and sinker for their new schtick, even including the Popjustice gang. So that’ll be the feeling of feeling utterly alone once again.

At this point I should go home, but I make the mistake of drowning my Muse-inflicted sorrows with too many cheap drinks. The upshot of which is when someone says “You look like David Sylvian”, just like the Time Out photographer did hours earlier, this time I genuinely feel like starting a fight. It’s just as well I have no idea how to do such a thing.

In fact, I do actually snap when a perfectly nice young lady approaches me to say: “I think I read an interview with you. Who are you again?”

My response is to get annoyed, exasperatedly indicate my Popjustice name tag and bark this utterly outrageous and impossibly rude answer:

“Oh – just Google me, will you?”

I can’t quite believe it myself, and can’t even remember saying such a thing. Just the embarrassment afterwards. I even wince at typing such uber-haughty words. It’s a new low. Who the hell do I think I am?

Bleating that a certain amount of drink puts me on the verge of breaking down, feeling the weight of 35 years of frustration, that this was “the last straw” is no excuse; no excuse for anything at all.

Never forget that the last straw thinks it’s the first straw.

“Just Google me” is even worse than saying “Do you know who I am?” Which I’m afraid I have actually done recently, when trying to get into a club at 3AM. Again, I was utterly riddled with alcohol, but that’s an explanation, not an excuse.

The correct response to which is of course, “Yes, we know exactly who you are. Which is why you’re not coming in.”

There’s not enough breath in my remaining life to say quite how mortified and sorry I am about such booze-triggered arrogance. I vow to teach myself about knowing when to go home before reaching this sort of state again. It’s been happening a lot lately.

So at this late point in the Popjustice evening, my mental state not helped by not really knowing anyone at this event and arriving alone, my drunkenness has left me feeling old, upset, arrogant, alone and angry with the world. It’s just the way the alcohol has morphed me, I protest weakly in my defence. It’s not because the world loves Muse and not me. Well, not JUST because the world loves Muse and not me.

“Just Google Me”

It sounds like the title of a trendy new Channel 4 sitcom.

Thankfully, the lady I snap at forgives me when I approach her later and profusely apologise. And I tell her everything she could possibly want to know about me. And I make sure I ask about her life – and listen – in return.

I then move to another seat, where a young man says:

“Hi… So…. who are you, then?”

But it’s okay; I’ve learned my lesson now. Even though I’m still drunk. I know the right answer now.

“Me?” I reply. “I’m no one, really. I’m just a guy in a suit.”

I go home.