The 47th Annual Rose D'Or Awards (formerly the Golden Rose of Montreux, but now no longer held in Montreux, actually in Lucerne)
Look at Lucerne. It is a beautiful city. Set, like all Swiss cities, against its own crystal-clear lake, and so clean you could eat your lunch off it, this was our destination. A short, hour-long flight to Zurich from Heathrow, and an hour-long drive at the other end. The Rose D'Or awards were being handed out at a ceremony that lasts from 7.30 to 9.30pm. We - that is, the Not Going Out team: myself, Rob from Avalon, and Dan the Avalon PR (Lee was unable to join us) - were to take the 13.50 flight, which, taking in all eventualities, including clean but heavy traffic, and adding in the hour's time difference, would get us to the hotel for around 6pm at the latest, giving us plenty of time to check in, "freshen up", grab a bit to eat and stroll round the lake in a leisurely fashion to arrive at the awards venue before 7.30. During this time, I would work on my acceptance speech, should it be required. (Avalon had a tip-off at the weekend that it might be worth our while to attend, so you can appreciate the sense of tingling anticipation.) For the record, these are the shows we were up against in the Best Sitcom category:



Alle lieben Jimmy (Germany)
Dr. Psycho (Germany)
Legit (UK)
The Lighthouse (Finland)
Little Mosque on the Prairie (Canada)
My Family (UK)
The Royle Family: Queen of Sheba (UK)
The Thick Of It (UK)
Turkisch fur Anfanger (Germany)

Anyway, successfully picked up and dropped off by cars at Terminal Two, we met at the gate, full of the joys of the awards season. Even though we'd been tipped off to attend, you can't take that as a definite confirmation that you've won. We dared to dream, however. Our dreams, though, turned to ash. Once boarded, we sat on the Swiss Air plane for an hour and a half. There was something awry with the computer in the cockpit. At one stage, I kid you not, they actually unplugged the plane and then turned it back on again, presumably after calling IT. Anyway, while we frantically recalculated our arrival time as the clock ticked, and Rob and Dan wore the buttons out on their BlackBerries, it transpired that the fault could not fixed, despite the upbeat announcements from our Swiss pilot. Finally, at 15.20, we were told to get off and return to the gate.

The next available flight was at 17.15, which, we calculated, would get us to the venue for between 8.30 and 9pm. Rather than throw in the towel, we spoke to Avalon head honcho Jon, who, having risked a later flight than ours, had successfully boarded it and was about to take off. He said he would try and get the Rose D'Or organisers to move Best Sitcom back up the running order (it was supposed to be third). Also, if we didn't make it, at least he could collect it on our behalf. (Ben Elton was the evening's host, and we obviously didn't trust him to collect it for us.) We boarded at 17.15. The second flight didn't take off for a further half an hour. We entered a state of Zen. Perhaps it would be like a British romantic comedy, and the award would be moved back, and the three of us would crash into the venue just as they were announcing it, and I would sprint to the stage to rapturous applause.

This is what a Swiss Air plane in the air looks like:



Hooray. Incidentally, you're still not allowed to take "liquids" or "gels" onto a plane, but Swiss Air are allowed to carry what was labelled a Chicken and Oatmeal sandwich. This was one of the most unpleasant things I have ever eaten at 12,000 feet. Having sat for a rather sad and demoralising hour in the Caffe Nero at Terminal 2 trying to spend our three ten-pound Swiss Air vouchers on something not made of white flour, and not breathe in the putrid smoke of a man with a cigar in the "smoking section" (it actually smelt like an electrical fire), Rob, Dan and I were eternally grateful to be in the air, and all ate our disgusting chicken porridge sarnies.

Landing in Zurich and possibly the nicest airport in the whole world at 20.25, we were met by the world's most Swiss driver, an almost expressionless middle-aged man with a beard who promised to get us there within the hour, itself a surreal aim, as that's when the ceremony ended. Dan changed into his suit in the toilets (which were very clean, by the way). Our driver had, to be fair, been waiting for us with our names on a piece of card since three o'clock, but hey, those are the breaks with international air travel. I said we'd had a long day. He replied, "Tell me about it," with so little trace of emotion or feeling, I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. The car, a Mercedes, was silent and cool and roomy. Small mercies, as we made our way to pointlessness. The countryside between Zurich and Lucerne was immaculate. Not a single view would have been rejected by the makers of toffee tins. It really is a beautiful country, Switzerland. We commented how clean it was to our driver. He replied, dolefully, "Not as clean as it used to be." Suspecting he was about to blame the blacks for this downturn in Switzerland's cleanliness, we pressed him no further, and looked out of the window. Darkness fell.

Driving into Lucerne, we saw the lights twinkling in the lake and were glad we'd come this far. We threw our bags at the concierge at the magnificent Palace Hotel and headed for the venue. We arrived, three men in their best suits, still up for it, at 9.35. Walking past the illuminated welcome banner with the Rose D'Or logo on it, it quickly became clear that everybody had left. The lady on the door told us they'd all been courtesy-bused to the Casino for the after-show. By this time, Not Going Out had won Best Sitcom, and Jon had been up to collect it, mumbling some thanks for "the writers", apparently. We'd fucking won! We'd won the Golden Rose of No Longer Montreux! What a victory. And where was everybody?

We strolled back through the town, admiring the sights in the darkness, making a note of the famous, picturesque bridge Mum and Dad had told me to look out for, and hit the Casino. Nobody even asked to see our tickets, which was just as well, as we didn't have any. We obviously looked like delegates from the European TV industry, so that's comforting to know. Lots of men in suits and women in dresses, all apparently speaking German, gathered in a big room with a free bar, and not a soul we recognised apart from Ben Elton, who was really working the room. (I understand the general feeling is that Montreux isn't as good since it moved to Lucerne, and a lot of the British contingent don't seem to bother going, which is a crying shame, as I think "we" won seven out of the eight main awards, five for C4 and two for BBC1, that's us and The Vicar Of Dibley.) After a couple of well-earned free beers (we had refrained from using our Swiss Air vouchers on booze, as is traditional, when we were stuck at Heathrow, so these were truly welcome), we met up with Jon, who had the actual Golden Rose in his bag, and we repaired to our five-star hotel, where a piano was being played in the bar. They told us that only one restaurant stayed open past 11pm in Lucerne and it was called something that sounded like Ribstock, but probably isn't spelt like that. We went there, and had Swiss food that filled a gap. It was very "late nite" this place, and we looked somewhat overdressed among what might well have been the cleanest young drug addicts in Switzerland.

We retired at midnight because, guess what, the car taking us back to Zurich in time for our early flight home was due at 4.30am. This meant that Rob, Dan and I spent eight hours in Switzerland, six in Lucerne, none of them picking up an award, all of them slightly fraught but held together with the glue of shared mishap, and - in their case - the teat of a BlackBerry. I made a mental note never to get one, ever.

Oh, and yes, I did approach Ben Elton at the after-show. I interviewed him like a drooling fan for the NME when his first novel came out, so I had an "in". (I also know his writing partner Richard Curtis, and at least one person who was in his terrible having-a-baby sitcom.) I shook his overworked hand, which was soft and limp, and told him that he had almost handed me a Rose D'Or. He said well done for winning it, and that the bloke who actually picked it up was a bit grumpy. I told him I had interviewed him back in 1989, and he said, "You must be older than you look." When we passed the Casino again after our meal at midnight, he was still in there, working the room.

Anyway, stupid trip, but enjoyable in a sitcom kind of way. Nobody to blame. No anger. And we've won another award for the unfashionable sitcom Not Going Out! We went to Lucerne in the hope of cleaning up at the awards, and that's very nearly all we were able to do. I bet Lee's glad.