Most people have a claim to fame, don't they? I've got a couple of poor but respectable ones: I once held a door open for John Cleese (he said "Thank you" rather sternly) and I once witnessed the late Kenneth Williams buying a newspaper (he looked tiny, fragile and unhappy). Not exactly jaw-dropping anecdotes, I'll admit, and I have never dined out on either. But then, I do have a fairly spectacular claim to fame that tends to triumph in any impromptu bout of one-upmanship: back in 1986, at the tender age of 14, courtesy of Jim'll Fix It, I spent a whole day at the Hammersmith Odeon in London with my favourite band, Iron Maiden. Yeah, so your mum once copped off with Keith Moon. Whatevs. I was on Jim'll Fix It, therefore I win.

It's not an exaggeration to say that my Jim'll Fix It experience is one of the defining moments of my life. I was already a fan of metal music by that point, obviously, so no change there. But after being contacted by a very charming BBC researcher – who came round to my parents' house to meet me, presumably to make sure I wasn't horribly deformed, deranged or suffering from Tourette's – and receiving the glorious news that my letter to Jimmy Savile had been accepted, my life was never the same again. I can remember it vividly, despite the fact that it all seemed so surreal. It was 3 November 1986 – a doubly significant date, since that's also Adam Ant's birthday, and he was responsible for turning me into a music obsessive in the first place. I took the train to London on my own (for the first time ever), caught a cab to Hammersmith (feeling terribly grown up and a bit cool) and then stood around at the backstage entrance looking forlorn and slightly terrified.

I was greeted by a couple of members of Maiden's road crew, one of whom immediately pointed out that my T-shirt (bought from Woolworths in Hemel Hempstead) was in a fact "a bloody bootleg". I was then led to the backstage catering area and introduced to a vast number of people, most of whom I recognised from the photos in the booklet of Maiden's magnificent Live After Death live album. Being shy and self-conscious, I grinned and blushed a lot. I was terrified, yet I could hardly have been happier. Everyone in Maiden's organisation was friendly and welcoming, including the band themselves: resolutely down-to-earth, they each came and said hello at various points during the day. I remember Steve Harris clocking my West Ham scarf (which I'd worn specifically to attract his attention, natch) and asking if I was a "proper 'ammer". I was (and am), and he beamed his approval. I practically wet myself.

More important than all this star-struck wandering around was the fact that the BBC had a Jim'll Fix It segment to film. This was where my mind was truly blown, because during those few hours backstage I got to tune Steve's bass guitar, play on Nicko McBrain's insanely huge drum kit, eat in the canteen with the road crew and, best of all, clamber aboard the road crew's tour bus to film a slightly ludicrous skit which involved me pretending to wake up on the bus, peer through the curtains on my bunk and be given the news that it was time to get to work setting up the band's gear. I loved every second of it.

And then it got even better. Suddenly it was time for the show, and Maiden hit the stage in front of a packed auditorium. I was given several jobs by the kind Bill Barclay (one of Maiden's senior techs), including handing drinks and towels to singer Bruce Dickinson as he came off stage for a breather and feeding Dave Murray's guitar lead to him as he walked around the stage. This felt like an immense responsibility at the time (even though I'm still not entirely sure why Maiden weren't yet using wireless equipment) and I remember feeling giddy with adrenalin.

That was nothing, however, compared with how I felt when the crew dragged me on stage to join in the "Woah-oh-oh!" vocal refrain on Heaven Can Wait, with a vast sea of ecstatic-looking Maiden fans staring up at us and bellowing along. Given the sort of music I play in my own band (shouty punk rock), the feeling of being on that stage is clearly something I will never experience again, but that glimpse into what life must be like in a band like Iron Maiden, and to bask in that level of warmth and devotion, must have had a profound effect on me – I've always loved performing live and have never suffered from nerves. After that, playing in some godforsaken pub in Dunstable seems no challenge at all.

As with many cherished memories, though, I do have one painful regret concerning that day. At the end of the set, Bruce Dickinson called me on stage and introduced me to the Hammersmith crowd, before asking me to introduce someone. Now, I'm deaf in my left ear, and when he asked me to introduce Nicko McBrain, I didn't hear a damn thing. I had warned Bill Barclay about my deafness, but evidently the message hadn't reached the Maiden frontman. Bruce became highly amused that I didn't seem to know the drummer's name. Dear floor, please swallow me up now!

(Now, this has bugged me for 25 years: Nicko had picked up on my faux-pas and, during footage filmed backstage after the gig when the band presented me with my Jim'll Fix It badge, he said: "You forgot my name, but I still love ya.")

Luckily, ever the professional, Bruce swiftly gave me the chance to redeem myself by asking me to introduce the final song of the show. I heard him perfectly that time and duly screamed "Running Free!" into Bruce's microphone. I've got a very loud voice when I try and I remember Bruce's startled face as the PA started to whine. Then I fled to watch the rest of the show from the wings, almost hysterical with excitement.

After presenting me with my goodies, the Maiden boys departed and I was gently eased into a taxi and taken to my hotel for the night. Once in bed, I shed a few overwhelmed tears. What a day it had been. I'd been a fan of Iron Maiden since seeing the Run to the Hills video on Top of the Pops a few years earlier, but now my devotion was total. Twenty-five years later and Maiden are still my favourite band. They have never let me down. Bless their heavy metal hearts.

A few months later, in the spring of '87, I returned to BBC Television Centre to film the studio segment, wherein Jimmy Savile, seated in his "magic chair", dispensed pearls of wisdom while wearing horrifying sportswear and comical jewellery. My mum had kindly bought me a new jumper to wear which made me look less like a fledgling metalhead hellraiser and more like a nice middle-class boy, and I had even combed my hair for the occasion. There were at least two other "fix its" on the show – one involved someone's granny becoming a wrestling referee and grabbing the legendary Mick McManus by the ear and chastising him for being "a naughty boy". My memory of that day is blurred, but I remember the part where I chatted with Jimmy. As bonkers as he clearly was, he was friendly, attentive and not remotely patronising. He seemed to have a gift for speaking to everybody in an appropriate way.

At the end, Jimmy asked me: "So, do you plan on making music your career?" I answered in the affirmative, presumably dreaming of a career as a rock star at that point. Obviously, I'm not a rock star of any description, but I do feel rather proud that I eventually built a career within music, albeit at the journalism end of things. And maybe I'm crediting Jimmy with more than he deserves, but I feel strongly that he planted the idea in my head of working in the music industry and being part of that wild, exhilarating, extravagant (and, it turns out, thoroughly ridiculous) world for real.

If nothing else, being on Jim'll Fix It gave me a cast-iron belter of an anecdote to drop into awkward social silences. Not everyone knows about Iron Maiden, of course, but if you watched telly during the 70s and 80s, you sure as hell know who Jimmy Savile was. And he really did make dreams come true. Rest in peace, Jimmy, and thank you so much, you lovable old loonbag.