Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen, friendly young girl going down! Ah, the words of Dyke van Dick's winsome refrain reverberate in every passage as I sample the aromatic watering holes of the trendy Fissegade.

It is, in any case, a heavenly retreat from the misery that is currently Whitehall - or at least it was until about 3am on Sunday morning, when I stumbled upon a gathering of people as unexpected as they were, frankly, ghastly.

I seem to attract these numpties like a dose of the clap. Okay, so a secondment to Ed Miliband and his fatuous coterie of veggieburger munchers for the duration of the Danish smugfest always held a certain risk, but little did I expect to find the usual gaggle of hessian-clad green suspects Andrew Simpnel, Jonathan Porridge, Joanna "too sanctimonious to give a nickname" Blythman in a nightclub so achingly hip it could supply an orthopaedic hospital for a month.

As a loyal defender of the temple of environmental holiness that is the UK grocery industry, I have had my fair share of dust-ups with this crowd and their unwashed hair-shirted acolytes over the years, but they were all so pissed up on dandelion and burdock aquavit that they beckoned me over. Before long I had inveigled my way into the cabal, and the rest of the evening must remain a secret if dancing naked around a flaming wicker effigy of Markup de Price (chosen for the extra quantity of combustible material) can ever truly be a secret.

But something happened that night, dear readers. I'm not quite sure what La Blythman did as she incanted her Wiccan rhyme over my prostrate body, smeared as it was with Somerfield baked beans (fear not they were sugar and salt reduced) but I have begun to see the greening of supermarkets (as popularised recently on Panorama) as less than entirely convincing. Could it be that packaging reduction, stores of the future and the rest are really just knapost, as our Danish friends would say? Surely not!

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