Stranded in a field of dreams

Sunday 12.01am: Bang, bang, bang in disused village hall in Wiltshire. Big Beats have arrived in the Home Counties. Even the sheep outside apparently leaping around, although that may be effect of the pills, which are v. trippy. Serious problem because Dylan is having rare and random drug-free night and so wants to go home, but is also driving. Without D it's just us and the sheep and one bus back to civilisation at 15.45 and, personally, not convinced that village postmistress types will want us knocking around scenic landscape until then. Anna wants to slip some speed into his Orange Tango, but personally feel this is a bit mean since the last time he had a drug-free clubbing experience was back in 1988.

2.10am: "I want to go home!" says Dylan, in plaintive child's "I hate the seaside"-type voice. He can't seem to find his car keys. Everybody else reaching for their second pill. Vikram upset because has brought bat and ball ready to play dawn cricket in a country field somewhere as part of a long-term "I am Imran Khan" fantasy. Tell him to shut up and go on Stars In Their Eyes instead.

3am: Postmistress-type woman has called the cops. Time for a sharp Harp exit from the county, only can't find Dylan anywhere. "His car's still there," says Tinky-Winky, pupils like saucers. "He can't be far." Anna shrugs. "We've, erm, got his keys anyway. I just sort of found them."

3.20am: Still searching for Dylan, while trying to dodge manhandling by village bobbies who are ill-equipped to deal with 800 people off their heads. Briefly worried, then remember this was same local constabulary who were recently incapable of catching two runaway pigs.

3.45am: Find Dylan under a pile of coats and fagbutts.

3.46am: Run v. quickly to D's car, stuff him into driver's seat, turn lights and ignition on for him and tell him to put his foot down. He blinks a few times and then asks for a line of speed, which he does off the steering wheel as the blue lights flash behind us. "Good lights," he says, more perkily. "Dylan, those are actual police car lights," I explain, "not club imitations. Now please get us out of here very quickly."

4am: Village bus stop looks like Woodstock. 200 people are waiting for the 15.45 and momentarily regret not being there to see look on driver's face. Dylan trying to skin up while driving.

5.08am: M4 Service station. Anna convinced she has seen Tom Cruise going to Gents.

5.09am: Evicted from service station due to Anna being caught offering drugs to short Top Gun lookalike who turned out to be off-duty customs official.

6.30am: Appear to be back in London. Everyone steadily chilling out due to large amounts of skunk.

6.50am: Car stops outside Lords Cricket Ground. "Let's play!" says Vikram, grabbing bat and ball from boot. "Yeah, it will be like an anti-establishment fuck-you-you-sexist-bastards-type of game," says Dylan. Point out there is nothing anti-establishment about cricket, but distracted by Anna screaming that she has always wanted to streak at Lords, "You know, full kit-off in yer face rebellion." Try to remind her she is now trainee barrister.

7am: Vikram has hit a six. Dylan is out for the count in the stands. Anna is running naked round the edge of the MDMA-enhanced green pitch shouting "Down with the MCC! Sexist Pigs!!". Tinky-Winky is complaining that he hates sport. Suddenly love all my friends hugely.

7.02am: "HEY YOU!!!" A big, fat security guard is hurtling in our direction. I stop mid-bowl. We all stare at each other. "Who are you?" he asks Vikram, like we've just landed in a space ship. "I," says Vikram, "am Imran Khan, and these are my friends." Security guard rubs his eyes like in bad sitcom. Then Anna appears at full pelt, breasts bouncing in full glory. "Bloody 'ell!" says security guard. We all look at each other some more. And then we run.