I didn't go to the Morrisons agm last week. This was not, as might be imagined, because my doctors have advised that my cholesterol count cannot endure breathing any more Bradford air - it's more my liver they're concerned about - but simply because I received a far more interesting invitation.

Scrawled in green biro in an infantile hand on the back of an old menu, the document was pushed under my cubicle door in the DRIP khazi as I was putting the Daily Mail to its customary good use (sometimes I read it first). The note simply said: "124 Horseferry Road Noon Tuesday. Bring cheque book."

So you can imagine how utterly crestfallen I was when said address turned out to be the HQ of Channel 4, TV's answer to Somerfield. I assumed this was just another attempt to get me on to "Celebrity" Big Brother. Once your name gets in the papers they employ hordes of meeja studies graduates from the University of Crouch End to hound you into taking part in that loathsome exercise in public humiliation. If it wasn't for the fact these would-be luvvies are clearly rejects from the casting couch, I might have succumbed, but that's another story.

In fact, I was shown into a darkened room which smelled of manure and sanctimoniousness. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I began to discern what was clearly a hugely deranged individual dressed in a chicken suit. "Pumsey," he clucked in some sort of inbred public school vernacular. "My fwends tell me you are, shall we say, quite comfortably awf, what? Good man, that's the spirit! So you won't miss a few quid if we ask for a purely voluntary donation to save the wittle tweeties, what? What?!"

We Pumsies didn't get stinking rich by sitting around listening to chickenshit like this, so I fled quicker than you can say "Fearnley-Whittingstall". Looks like the Tesco agm is going to be an even more featherbrained affair than usual.