Imagine my sense of dread as I was called to the oligarch's office. This is a man with a fearful past, responsible for inflicting untold suffering in the windswept northern gulags. And now, with untold millions to his name, he has assumed even greater power as editor of one of the top titles of the land, able to make or destroy reputations and careers at will.

Readers, I am not referring to former KGB agent Alexander Lebedev, new owner of the London Evening Pravda. This is far worse. I am referring to former Georgian agent (or George agent at any rate) Bondandybond, who for one dread week is at the very head of this very tumescent organ.

Bondy was looking for answers. "We're starting here with a blank sheet of paper. Well, in fact, several sheets. What shall I fill them with, young man?" he demanded.

Luckily, I was able to give him the benefit of my experience, and not only as former supremo of Pumsey's Price Palace - the third-best discounter in the whole of western Berkshire. You see, I too once took control of a powerful organ, in my case the Newbury Trumpeter.

In my zeal for truth I personally penned several feature-length pieces extolling the virtues of giant retail monopolies, articles which were then unaccountably syndicated across the country - including the Bootle region, where a young and impressionable Scouse shelf stacker from the Co-op took my rant a little too seriously.

Other innovations that did not survive me included the Topless Bag Lady photo feature and Pumsey's Problem Page. Look, Flatulent of Burbage, I was just joking, right? The chillies should be chopped and fried, not inserted.

I left Bondy frantically wielding the blue pencil over a poison pen letter from one of the 200 souls recently freed/fired from King Justin's Holborn Coliseum, his lips moving as he struggled over the harder monosyllables. Yes, Andy, I suppose that word is a sort of 'rollback'.n