Dom Joly: The horrors of Speech Day mark the start of summer

I was trying to sleep in after a late-night homecoming from some far-flung gig. I was dreaming of stalking a particularly annoying heckler with a high-powered hunting rifle and a night-scope. Suddenly I was under attack. It was a sneak ambush by my kids who were bouncing up and down on me and insisting that I get up – it was Speech Day at their school and I was not going to be allowed to miss it.

I crawled out of bed like a condemned man. I fell into a suit and poured some coffee down my throat. Five minutes later I was in the car and being driven off to my fate. I have to admit that Speech Day is my least favourite day of the year. I used to hate it even when I was at school.

Admittedly it was always on the last day of term and meant you were about to be released from prison for two and a half months and there was nothing I loved more than the summer holidays. Speech Day, however, used to drag on for ever. I remember we had Cecil Parkinson to give the speech in my last year. He gave us a long, pompous talk about morals and standards being the backbone of life. Three months later the Sara Keays scandal blew up and he was forced to resign from the Cabinet. I always used to marvel at his cheek in coming to lecture us so hypocritically.

Rebekah Brooks doesn't live too far from me and I was secretly hoping that we might be lucky enough to have her speaking on morality and ethics in the modern media, but we were out of luck – instead, we had an "inspirational speaker" booked. She started promisingly – she wandered on to the stage and began strumming a guitar while singing about weird-shaped sandwiches. The kids were looking at each other in disbelief.

She then announced that she had Asperger's, cerebral palsy, depression and nine other disabilities that, once she had listed them all, we had to cheer and shout "bingo" at. This was no Cecil Parkinson. She was actually rather uplifting and a bit mad, which went down very well.

It was certainly more enjoyable than the rather gloomy worldview given to us by the chairman of the governors. He pretty much says the same thing every year, but I always look forward to him as he sports the most extraordinary comb-over and I enjoy seeing it every year like some long-lost friend. When we reached the two-hour mark I started to nod off but tried to keep myself awake by looking at the other parents. There seemed to have been some confusion as to the dress code. Some had turned up dressed for a cocktail party, while others looked as though they were off to Ascot. It was all rather gloriously British.

Stoically, we sweltered in the big marquee as the prizes were doled out – the table groaning under the weight of them all. I guessed we were in for at least another hour before release. It was actually another hour and a half, as award after award was handed over for seemingly every achievement under the sun – horse-riding, cross-country, chess, origami, Latin, profiterole-making, lumber-jacking... I made some of those up but, my God, did it go on. Finally, the choir having sung for one last time, it was over and I bolted for the car. Fifteen minutes later I was in the pool downing a stiff gin and tonic and celebrating summer. It was only temporary, however – I have two weeks of touring to go before I can really let off steam. I can't wait.

This week: Dom is appearing on Sunday night in Oxford, and then Andover, Hastings, Chesterfield, Winchester and Barrow-in-Furness