Such have been the calls on my time recently touting ice cream in intervals at the Chilcot Inquiry and scripting Campbell's TV interviews that until now I haven't had the chance to visit my new best friend Dalton O'Philips.

For those still in the dark, Dalton is Marc Bullion's successor at Morrisons, or Dalton's Weakly as it shall henceforth be known. This, of course, is not entirely inappropriate since once Bolan's Hot Love has ebbed from the Bradford Banger Bar then who knows how long it will be before we see the first classified ad.

I suppose hiring an Irishman fresh from a Canadian moose offal distributor is fitting. After all, Morrisons hasn't had anyone who could speak intelligible English at the helm since well before (and including) Sir Ken's time.

Anyway, O'Philips was affable enough at our summit meeting, although I'm not sure he had the faintest idea who I was. His old boss Archie Leighton had given him a crib sheet of important people to meet during his first few days at Tripe Central and I can only assume he was confusing me with Lord Peter "the dentist" Mandacity.

How else to interpret the invitation to tickle his molars? I believe it was Irene Rosenkrank, new boss of Cadbury, who last week described her brief encounter with the Prince of Darkness as "like having root canal work". High praise indeed from a woman whose very gaze could freeze the South Pacific and reverse global warming.

Anyway, O'Philips and I were just settling into our fourteenth Guinness and Advocaat snowball when the phone rang. It was Danaher. He'd taken the DRIP Toyota Pious out for a spin in Bradford and done an emergency stop. So I picked him up in Manchester. Badum!

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