Arriving back at the hotel we experienced more weirdness finding the establishment locked and having to bang on the door to gain entry. As we passed reception, Alan nonchalantly enquired "We can get some room service can't we?" Instead of the expected "Of course sir", the little man nodded, and from under the counter pulled out 3 ready-prepared dishes, hermetically sealed in holocaust-proof plastic bags. "These are the only ones left" he chirped as we were invited to choose between mouldy salad + sweaty cheese, mouldy salad + soggy meat or mouldy salad + mouldy salad. The sad thing is that we were so bewildered, we felt obliged to accept this meagre offering and shuffled into the lift, plates in hand.

"Oh well, at least we can get a drink" we reasoned. However, it seems that together with late nights and late dinners, one is also not permitted late drinking in Oslo because we found the mini-bar empty and reception unable to provide us with anything even remotely alcoholic. Hungry and thirsty, we were forced to concede that the mouldy salad was about the only consumable option left and started a fight over who got the cheese and who was going to risk it with the meat.

To round off our grievances, Alan switched on the TV which jumped straight to a channel of a more 'adult' nature featuring 2 girls acting in a way that might be described as ‘intimate’ in polite company. However, the usual sounds that accompany such behaviour (and I'm sure most porn aficionados would agree, play a pretty integral part in one's viewing pleasure) had been replaced by... well... 'dinner jazz'. In spite of the visuals, which were of a quality one would expect in Scandinavia, Colin Butterworth's Light Orchestra's rendition of 'Stranger On The Shore' didn't exactly assist them in hitting the proverbial spot.

The most surreal encounter occurred the next day when we decided to eat lunch in the hotel restaurant to save time. The maitre'd announced that there would be a showcase performance by one of Norway's up and coming artists - and basically we'd all have to listen to it whether we wanted to or not.

After a stand-off over the retention of our jackets, we risked taking our seats and sure enough, onto a small stage at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, surrounded by bright lights and an indifferent crowd of businessmen, came the Norwegian Ry Cooder: a Vic Reeves look-a-like with jet black dyed hair and more jewellery than Liberace during Lent. He then proceeded to play 12 string guitar and mumble like Tom Waits, all at deafening volume through a 2K PA .

His cause wasn't helped much by the fact that somewhere along the road he'd felt moved to pen the charmingly entitled 'She'll Do Anything She Can To Make You Feel Like An Asshole'. Still, you have got to admire anyone who's prepared to rhyme the word 'carrot' with 'embarrassed' and still have enough conviction to believe that people will actually take you seriously as a songwriter.