Flugtag means flying day, apparently. It’s German, or Austrian. The idea is that lots of bizarre people build bizarre flying machines, none of which have engines, and some of which don’t even have wings. The nice Red Bull people, who are paying for the day, build a big long take-off ramp in the middle of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, gather together a batch of celebs to act as a judging panel and invite along 400,000 people to watch. Oh, and ITV, who were filming it for next Saturday lunchtime.

Then the competitors get 30 seconds to do a little dance (all very well choreographed), load themselves into their flying ‘machines’ and run full pelt along the runway ramp, launching themselves off the end over a six-metre drop down into the water. The crowd, rapidly turning into crispy strips of flesh as it sits on the scorched grass, goes wild with cheers and screams and applause and monster screens all around the park tot up the scores.

So, that was how I spent today. And now my head throbs. I got too much sun, in spite of the fact I was careful to drink plenty of water and slap on the oil. For some bizarre reason, on what was probably the hottest day of the year, though, I wore thick jeans and my heaviest, clumpiest shoes, which was definately a mistake.

Anyhow, it seems half of the south east was up there. Chelmsford station was buzzing as we arrived and the 11h07 train was packed. We were lucky to get seats. Even the people who weren’t going along seemed to be asking each other if they’d heard about the event, so the advertising clearly worked.

The tube was the same. Crammed full, with long slow queues as we walked through the subways into Hyde Park. Once there we pushed our way through the crowds and I called Kathryn to see where she was. We eventually met up around the lost children tent - which rather summed up how I felt - and battled through the surging hordes to find a patch on the grass where there was room to sit down with her friends.

We had a good view of the screens, and of the edge of the lake, and could watch the people going by. The Red Bull staff were dressed up as air hostesses, and rather than ‘competitor’ labels the people taking part are badged up as ‘pilot’ or ‘ground crew’. Even the area where the flying machines queue up for their turn to plumet like a stone and sink in the water is called the holding pattern, and they are directed up onto the runway by a man with those luminous wands they use for guiding planes around airport tarmac. It was all very well organised.

Shame the same couldn’t be said for the shops around Marble Arch, which were having serious problems dealing with the number of people who wanted to buy food and drink. Around half three we had wandered off through the mad people standing up on milk crates and yelling at speakers’ corner where Marx and Lenin both once spoke. I am sure there would have been mad ones then, too, but they are long since forgotten.

We broke through the crowds standing around to listen to the speakers and made our way across to Sainsbury’s where the staff were jamming the automatic doors in an effort to close them. The doors’ magic eye was seeing all the people milling around outside and fighting back, trying to keep them open.

We gave up and walked to McDonalds, but seeing the queues there, gave up a second time. We gave up several more times in several other places before heading back into the park and standing in a long queue at a small cafe that had run out of food but had just a few bottles of warm water left. We bought them gladly and walked back to the water’s edge.

It was a fun way to spend an afternoon, regardless of the crowds and the excessive heat. I’m glad of the weather, too, as a repeat of last weekend’s rain would have been a disaster.

After a long walk back to Piccadilly Circus and a stuffy train journey home during which I dozed off, I was glad of a soak in a cool, deep bath. It woke me up, and I felt far better not to be wearing heavy, sticky clothes, but I’ll certainly return next year.

It gets just a brief mention on the BBC.

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