Pity for King Justin that it comes at slightly the wrong time. It may be true that JS lorries run on love and all the staff fart pure oxygen, but right now the Great British Consumer is slightly more concerned with scraping together enough cash for a kilo of Basics Gruel. [Note to my PA: Rita, please take a memo to KJ reminding him that when the board set the environment as one of his KPIs they were only joking. It’s sales growth they actually want. And Rita, do something about those carpet burns on your knees. People are beginning to talk.
Where was I? Oh yes, Basically Gruelling is not a bad way of summing up this week, and I’m not referring to the economic devastation that is sweeping the land, sending house prices into free-fall, crushing the life out of pension funds and causing a mild run on the market for Sevruga Caviar. No, I am stuck in Manchester, and if that weren’t hell enough, it’s the party conference. So Hutton has set me up with the task of rallying the faithful and diverting the delegates’ attention from the fact that my old boss Darling Alistair’s eyebrows are mutating into a new and alarming species of caterpillar.
Amusingly, I bumped into Johnny Fingers of the OFT at a fringe meeting of the British Association of Nimbys. Turns out he’s got Cheshunt by the balls again after El Tel bought up most of Devon using a shell company entitled ‘Fluffybunny’. Although in the wake of the Grauniad’s grovelling apology to the Death Star (and for any hard-of-understanding Co-Op execs) I should point out that all this is said in the name of satire.