Err:

As I write, Friday lunchtime is approaching. That means fish and chips
in the office canteen. It’s a ritual. The food is utterly disgusting
and I vow every week that I won’t go back. But it is as certain that
within the hour I will be queuing with my tray for a portion of
dried-up, breaded fish and chips as it is that there are more
embarrassments lurking in John Reid’s filing cabinets.

This might actually be the unlocking of one of the great secrets of London meejah land. If one is ever lucky enough to be called into the lunchtime presence of The Great One (pbuh) (as I have as yet not been for reasons of geography) or The Robbie, the duly appointed acolyte, the conversation always follows a predictable path. "No, no, you don’t want to come all the way out here for lunch, I’ll come into town".

Certainly more believable than the fact that "all the way out here" is booze free isn’t it?