The indignity of the Moosehead Fantasy MotoGP awards ceremony. In fact I had come fifth in the competition, after leading for most of the year. Despite my having chosen the eventual champions of the 125cc, 250cc and MotoGP classes (Talmacsi, Lorenzo, Stoner), Travis was again, sickeningly victorious.

In the absence of the third and fourth placed Mooseheads, I took to the podium (2 broken chairs and a step ladder), with a live video uplink via Stacker Paine’s rather too elaborate mobile phone. The link broke, but the champagne was effective: three bottles were fed to the apple and cherry trees.

And then the most extraordinary thing happened. The Mooseheads started to sing – although that’s not at all an adequate term. It was more meditational than mere singing. Reminiscent of a Gregorian chant. Stranger things have been heard by the residents of West Oxford. But I bet they’ve never before seen the tower of Botley Cathedral levitate under the force of a Moosehead male voice choir.

And now for the first time anywhere this side if Chisinau, you too can marvel at the harmonious bellow of the Mooses. For here it is, a Moosehead podcast: