On Wednesday I went to the British Comedy Awards. The show I write for was nominated in the Best Comedy Entertainment Programme category, or somesuch. Basically, the category for funny shows that aren't sitcoms. or sketch shows. Or recognisably comedic in any form.

I apologise for the poor quality of photographs in this post. This is due to a combination of drunkenness, surreptitiousness and not being very good at taking picture of moving beings. 

On the way in, I snapped the autograph hunters:

Ah, if only one day it's my moniker those friendless, care-in-the-community be-anoraked Netto-bag carrying freaks want instead of Liza Tarbuck's.

I also tried to snap the paps - see how they like it, eh, readers?

A couple of drinks and it was down to business. Look, here's a meeting of televisual goliaths, as Chris Tarrant greets Paul Ross. This picture has been the subject of a multi-million pound gossip mag bidding war. But I present it to you for free.

Our award was up quite early. This would mean a long night if we lost, which was likely, as the other nominees were awards-hoovers Ant and Dec, and Have I Got News for You? These men handed out the gong:

Guess who won? Well, if it was A&D or HIGNFY I would taken a picture of 'em, wouldn't I? That's right. We won. I shook the hands of Jack B and The Other One. Along with the other writers, I stood on stage like a tool while the show's host made the speech. We went off stage. We drank. We drank.

Then a man with a snake came on to present the award for Best Entertainment Personality, for which our show's host was also nominated. The snake got loose. The snake was massive. The snake was about six feet from our fucking table.

Order was restored, and our man won again. We got namecheck, which was nice. We drank. Most of the rest of the evening passed, like my photos, in a blur. She came on:

O. Stone came on, seemingly off his nut, and made an ill-judged comment about serial prostitute murder:

Then we all went off to the party, and God only knows what happened.