I've got ham but I'm not a hamster

King Henry VIII was in fact an alien. Tudor coaching houses were actually cleverly disguised motherships. It's true - they play "Greensleeves" whilst abducting people.

Immanuel Kant's categorical imperative works best when set to music, and the theme tune to Match of the Day does the trick nicely, if you're interested.

In other news, the Man is spying on us all using miniature cameras. All of which are hidden in ham.

Hameras, if you will.

I learnt all this, and more, last night from Bill Bailey, playing in front of his biggest ever live audience on his Tinselworm tour. But the night hadn't started out looking so promising.

Katie was suffering from a rotten cold. Assuming (perhaps correctly) that a hacking cough wouldn't endear us to other audience members, she decided to duck out of the evening. So I was left on my own to wait at Brindley Place in Birmingham for Mike and Emma. Unfortunate traffic cock-ups meant that I was waiting in sub-zero temperatures for A Long Time Indeed. I was thankful for the smoking ban, as it meant that I could stand next to some of the patio heaters the bars have set up for their nicotine-dependent clientele. But the secondary smoke inhalation has probably shortened my life considerably.

Mike and Emma arrived, cursing the traffic on the Bristol Road. We had the "where shall we eat, what shall we eat?" conversation, then decided to grab a quick snack at the venue instead.

Big mistake. Eighteen hours later and my cheeseburger and fries is still grimly sticking to one of my ribs, making its presence felt. And they cost me the equivalent of the Haitian national debt.

I failed to dispose of Katie's ticket. No touts could be seen at all. There's never a tracksuited chainsmoking Liverpudlian when you need one, is there?

So I wasn't in the best of moods before the show. No matter, as I laughed my arse off anyway. He was relentlessly silly. If you've been reading this for any time you'll know that I have a fondness for the ridiculous. Multiply this by a million and you'll be getting there. And I'll never be able to listen to a certain Killers track in the same way again (the title of this post is a clue).

After the show, we met up with some of Emma's friends at the Malt House pub around the corner. Guinness was consumed. One of her friends does some work for Kerrang radio. Apparently, interviewing Dave Grohl and mentioning Nirvana isn't a wise move. Who would have guessed? Another friend has a client who has the real, if somewhat unfortunate psychological delusion that it is Christmas every day. "Have you checked whether he's Roy Wood?" I asked. I must remember to say things to myself first before repeating them out loud.

As I've said before, Birmingham has a good selection of restaurants from the Indian subcontinent - the world famous Balti Belt. However, finding one open after midnight is quite a skill. Unless, like us, you just ask a taxi driver to take you up Ladypool Road to find whatever's there.

Which saw the three of pitching up at Imrans, still bustling with customers despite the hour. I've been drawn to Sparkhill for about 15-20 years since my brother first introduced me to the world famous Adil Balti restaurant. I've been here dozens of times since, to Punjab Paradise, Balti Cottage, King of Baltis, etc. I don't know if I've been to Imrans before - I may well have been there before in a less-than-lucid moment - but the food was excellent. Slightly more spicy than I've had elsewhere, but that's fine with me. (Although, mixing with the Guinness from earlier meant that...no, actually I'll leave that one to your imagination.)

I bought some Indian sweets to take home for Katie - various burfi in a range of lurid colours - then we then tumbled into a taxi and home. The driver, seeing our purchases, tutted, then told us where we might get far more fresh jalebi in Small Heath.

He has a point - if you're aiming to bring about the onset of diabetes, you must do these things properly.