What a marvellous tube journey home from the quiz last night. No, not the bit shared with Jonathan and Darren, as entertaining as that was; nor the bit shared with Davo, as lovely as that was. No, I mean the bit shared with five young stoned blokes who fancied themselvs as popstars and two American girls on the pull.

"Say, do you guys have a record deal? We work for Sony - this is your chance - you can audition for us right now. Here, use my hairbrush as a mike."

And did they ever! We had a couple of human beatboxes, their unsynchronised rhythms overlapping to form avante garde synchopated patterns. We had strangulated, emasculated, castrated boyband wailing, and - best of all - we had rapping in both English and what sounded like Ukrainian from a matted-dreadlocked eastern European beatnik.

"God, he's gorgeous," whispered one of the girls, "he should be a model." Thereby proving the existence of the long-held theory about beer goggles. "You can keep the hairbrush," she said, as they alighted at Kilburn. He looked like he could use it.