I will spill all of my adventures over the next few days, and keep some of them secret until my dying day, and possibly beyond. BUT! The most excited I got all weekend was when, on the first evening, I spotted noted Guardian journalist and man-who-uses-metaphors-in-which-he-vomits-out-of-his-own-ears-far-too-often, Charlie Brooker, in a queue. I swore at the moment that I would get drunk enough at some point during the weekend to actually go up to him and speak to him, possibly telling him something about how much I admire his work and career, how I'm particularly taken with his television columns and that I love his television show on BBC4 so much that sometimes just the knowledge that it exists is enough to make me smile. But I'd probably more likely slur something about being one of his myspace friends and something about Nathan Barley and then go red, apologise and walk away while he sat and looked embarrassed.
Probably best, then, that we never found ourselves in the same room as each other. In fact, I only saw him again one other time, and then he was crossing the road outside of Teviot.
Importantly, I took a photo:
What do you mean, you can't see him? It's perfectly obvious that Charlie Brooker is the one with the black suit and black runners with the white soles, walking very quickly away from me (that's just a coincidence) to the extreme left of that photo. Yes. That's Charlie Brooker.
I'm close to all the stars, me.