Dear, dear Sir Ken famously once said that he, like a fine wine, does not travel well. Unfortunately for the Pumster it would be nearer the mark to say that Sir Ken, like a chambré party six of Yorkshire Bitter or one of his ridiculous pork pies, does not travel at all. Thus it was that I found myself rising hours before noon and programming my satnav (Shapland the DRIP Driver) to head for one of the more extensive white areas on my personal map, namely the Morrisons HQ, which is, well, north of here. Now let it be said that the Morrisons agm would not normally invoke more than a slight slowing of the pulse in any sentient being, but what with this being Sir Ken's swansong and all I thought I'd better pop my head round the door. One of the principal advantages of being fourth-best at anything, as my extra-domicile companion Candarella told me in bed the other night, is that you can't really be held accountable for your failures. Thus it was that the tripefest was a hagiographic affair. Despite five years of unmitigated punishment, shareholders were not so much baying for Ken's pate on a plate as coming over all unnecessary. But Ken left a funny taste in the mouth by hinting he might still be around to host another bash next year. And if that weren't enough disappointment for any man to bear, Marc Bolan could not be tempted into a rendition of "Hot Love". Seems the Flemish CEO is more TREX than T. Rex these days. Oh well. The long trip back to civilisation was at least kept entertaining by further news of the continuing alimentary woes of the big three. Exposés here, fines there - I'm with the Camden columnists. Why can't everyone just do all their shopping at a phoney farmers' market every other Tuesday afternoon in Chipping Norton? Frankly, the huddled masses get precisely what they deserve.

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