Those readers still in possession of their faculties will recall that the cream of British retail (including myself, naturally) have been summoned to Philip Green's yacht in the Aegean sea, to be greeted on board by King Justin. The bitter sense of disappointment was tangible. "Gentlemen," he barked. I guess he meant Green as well. "The pride of British retail is on the line. Sainsbury's may soon fall into the hands of Johnny Foreigner." Bond, Andy Bond, began to shift uneasily in his seat and Marc Bolan gave King a filthy look. Undaunted, he continued. "We have had our differences in the past. Some of you may even regard me as an oleaginous prat." This dramatic pause would have worked better if the polite laughter had materialised. "But nonetheless I must ask your help. It's time to team up and make a counterbid. Think of it - a British retail posse to the rescue." For a moment, it looked as if Peter Freeman had woken up and was about to speak, but, anticipating the moment, King reached for a lever and Freeman's chair flipped backwards, tossing him through a trapdoor down to the sharks. How we laughed. A lone figure rose to his feet. Polishing his glasses on his Everton hankie, the Scouse Supremo spoke. "Well, Justin, this is all very well. But will you be happy to be my second in command?" The ensuing mêlée was brief. All I can recall is Joanna Blythman getting Bond in a headlock, El Tel nutting Bond and Andrew Simms taking advantage of the confusion to fill his pockets with vol-au-vents. The huge bump on my head this morning suggests Kate Swann was in the mix as well. I awoke in the A&E department of Athens General. Veronica tells me I got pissed on Bloody Marys on the plane and fell down the stairs as we disembarked. She says I've been delirious for days. My version is, frankly, more credible.