I have been immortalised in art and I am inordinately chuffed.

Wandering through the Turner Prize retrospective at Tate Britain yesterday I discovered my name inscribed on a Grayson Perry pot.

The work concerned was not only dedicated to me, obviously. What Grayson Perry did was create a pot immortalising the night he won the prize in 2003. So the entire seating plan for the dinner is recorded in clay – and although it was not one of the works displayed for his Turner Prize show, in the circumstances the gallery decided to include it now.

As a journalist, you can have a Forrest Gump-like capacity to be there at great moments in (art) history. Look closely and I can be spotted in one of the photographs always dug out of the archives showing Tracey Emin’s famously unmade bed.

But it’s not quite like being Ossie Clark for David Hockney or Kate Moss for Lucian Freud.

Whatever your own claims to fame, as an artist's subject you survive for future generations, which is evidently why families still get painted for posterity even though photographs are quicker.

If Lucian Freud ever asks, I'd be more than willing to grab my chance. He's a fabulous artist but even Jerry Hall looks fleshy in his hands so I could blame the artist for my natural flaws.

In the meantime, I do now have a small cultural afterlife, albeit it as a name on a pot. Thank you Grayson!