It was an easy mistake to make. It was late, and I was drunk. That's my story, anyway, and I'm stuck with it.

The scene: 1996, a pop concert in LA. Loitering by the t-shirt stall, I took to chatting with an attractive young lady and her charming dimples. Well, not 'chatting' exactly - in truth I began one of those witty monologues that on reflection are the ramblings of a drunken loon.

My topic for the night was Alcoholics Anonymous, and the fun afforded by my recent voyeur's trip to a meeting. I probably had a few harsh words to say about self-indulgent Californians and their 'addictions'. I certainly expounded for ten minutes on drugs, booze, and Hollywood's love of a 'problem'.

As my soap-box act began to sputter lamely to a vague conclusion, I realised that I had failed to introduce myself to the recipient of my rant.

"Hello," I offered. "I'm X." "Hello," she answered, "I'm Drew."

Ahh. Right. Drew. Yes. It dawned slowly, starting at my feet and inching up to my beer-soaked brain. Drew. Alcohol. Hollywood. Drew. Barrymore. Ahhh. She seemed amused, which was generous given the circumstances and the subject of my inane 'coals to Newcastle' banter with Hollywood's most prominent ex-wild child.

I never saw her again, of course. We never went to see the kung-fu films that she might have been up for. And as for learning a lesson from the whole debacle - well I have this story involving me, Chloë Sevigny, and a sweaty handkerchief...

Read a review of "Charlie's Angels", starring Drew Barrymore.