Next week on the Breakfast Show I'll be chatting with Rushie Henshall star of West End Shows such as Miss Saigon, Chicago and now a new show called "Marguerite". I''l also be having a chinwag with Human League's Phil Oakey.

If you're interested in my Moscow trip I've done a podcast on the Magic website giving a full account of all the things that I got up to, but here's an extract.

At 1.30pm I went with by pal Dave to do an interview at the Moscow Kempinski Hotel and got fed up waiting for the prima donna footballer to arrive and decided I would have my first drink on match day.

Dave asked me to put a few things in my bag; his wallet and - so he didn't look like Steve McLaren - his brolly. On arriving down at the bar I noticed a boisterous lot who had put three tables together and had one spare chair there. As I was wearing my Chelsea shirt they invited me to join them and be the bait, as they were all Man Utd fans.

It turned out they were all from Dubai and listeners to my show when I worked there, who were over for the game and they had James Nesbitt coming to join them for lunch. I'd just knicked his chair. He arrived to much interest to the 250 assembled in the bar and after a flourish of autographs settled down with us for a session. Meanwhile my mate was still waiting to complete his TV interview.

The lads said that I had to go and join them for lunch at a restaurant next door. They were going to pay, so that's where it started going a bit squiffy. The restaurant was named GQ and had some rather delicious ladies photographs adorning the walls, but the food was even better, as was the drink. I found out on my return to the North East that James had gone on air on Talksport and sounded a lot worse for wear. The great news for me on that front, was that I escaped, due to a mad panic. All through the drinks in the Kempinski and through lunch I'd wondered where on earth my friend Dave was. But I carried on enjoying the free hospitality!

Eventually a call marked "unknown" came up on my phone. It was Dave wanting to know where the hell I was, as included with his wallet and umberella I had his ... phone. He'd spent ages looking for me in the bars at The Kempinski and then had gone back to his hotel to get on his computer to skype me.

So it was a good excuse to get away from the mad, maddening crowd in the restaurant, but I now had a problem. I chatted to Sergei, an awaiting taxi driver and no doubt as he had just seen me exiting probably the best restaurant in Moscow, stated that he wanted $100 to take me to my mate's hotel and then on to the Luzhniki Stadium. Well in my position there wasn't much else I could do, they always say there's no such thing as a free lunch and boy did I have to pay for that one.

Arriving at the stadium or as close to it as the Russian army would let the taxi go. It would probably have been a 10 pound taxi ride on it's own, but hey this is the Champions League final with 82,000 people present, they can't let too many vehicles through, primarily as they have seconded 700 buses and coaches to take everyone to their respective airports after the game and they needed somewhere to park them.

Obviously I was quite early to get to the stadium - it must have been around 6pm and I thought I'd sample a burger or whatever they had available and the only thing available? Er ... German style sausage. The barbecuing smell of which was quite enticing, but after a 20 minute wait and 8 quid in roubles it was not the best thing I'd ever had at a footy match. Thank goodness I had previously dined at the best restaurant in town.

I won't dwell on the match or the outcome - suffice to say, I tried to get away from the stadium as quickly as I could. Police were shouting instructions through a loudhailer in Russian in order to direct people to where we were meant to be going – good move. I walked quite a distance for about three quarters of an hour and then stopped at a bus stop to rest my blistered feet.

Three young Russian lads came stumbling along and one of them stopped to ask who had won the game – he was amazed it was Manure after penalties and understood my sadness and offered me a gulp of his beer. Nice lad. Then just up the road there was a pizza van and I stopped to buy a coke – bearing in mind it's now 2.30am there were bound to be a few unsavoury characters on the streets and sure enough three Russian lads. One started yelling and shouting "Russia are No 1" England FU" "Chelsea FU" and started stamping on a Chelsea flag. Four older lads who were at the Pizza stand were telling them to be quiet and when the three then started shouting back at them the four lads just laid into them and off they went with their tails between their legs.

I carried on my way, deciding soon that I didn't want to be walking for four hours again, I stopped a taxi who took me to my friend's hotel. I got an hour and a half sleep before heading off to attempt to check in at the hotel I'd stopped at on the Sunday night. After Alexander on the reception desk had turned me down asking for an early check in three times in two hours. I eventually got into my room at 12.45pm and I sat on the side of the wash basin with my feet in hot water for about half an hour and went to sleep for 18 hours!

A few memories I will always have other than the three Russian women in my sleeper carriage were the times I went to the loo. As I was having a tinkleski women toilet attendants would be mopping the floors. Invariably they were the most ugliest specimens around - for obvious reasons.

Also when it rains in Moscow it really rains as you possibly saw towards the end of the game and as John Terry found to his cost.

See you next time!