Spanish director of photography Oscar Faura has won two awards so far for his work on supernatural thriller The Orphanage, so he must have thought he was on a roll as the European film awards got underway in Copenhagen on Saturday night. He was apparently confused by the presenters' flattering commentary and jumped up to collect the award for best cinematography. Only halfway up the stairs to the stage, with his delighted face relayed on to large video screens and a live TV audience, did the awful truth dawn - the winner was not him, but actually Marco Onorato, for his work on the mafia film Gomorrah. Faura slunk back to his seat amid nervous laughter from the black-tie audience.

I read Faura's story yesterday with a hideous shudder of embarrassment. I too once rushed the stage and even managed to grab the award that should have been accepted by someone else. At least I didn't stop to make a speech.

The glorious occasion was the British Press Awards last year, when the Guardian won Supplement of the Year for its Guides to ... series. I was sitting beneath the chandeliers of the Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane because I had edited the first of them. As Jon Snow announced the nominations, I wondered what arrangements had been made should we win.

I couldn't see anyone associated with the series. My boss was staring at me. "Will you go up?" she whispered. I shrugged and nodded.

We won, so I walked up ("bolted up", one of my colleagues said accusingly later), shook hands with Snow and thanked him profusely.

Dazzled by the spotlights, I was already uneasily aware of some laughter in the room as I hurried off the stage. After a lap of honour (soon reduced to shame) before an official photographer, I returned to my table, where the undigested goat's cheese flan rolled in my stomach as I learned that my colleague - who had edited all the others in the series - barely had time to drop his napkin and stand up on the far side of the room before I was backslapping Snow and sucking my stomach in for the snappers.

I went home early. My partner, expecting amusing tales from my glittering night out, drew the duvet over his eyes as I recounted the shame. I dreaded work the next morning but the ribbing only lasted a day. Most people seemed to think it was an amusing highlight of the evening. And the true winner seemed reasonably happy with the souvenir photo - his head pasted on to my body.