My darling Ma-hinder,
There I was sitting in my armchair sucking on a flute of Dom Perignon and contemplating my singular lot in life when I happened, as you may imagine often happens with those who suck on expensive dew at ungodly hours, to come across a surprising news item which seemed to insinuate as news items sometimes do, that your minions in the east of paradise had bunged three media chappies from ole Blighty out on their ear. Deported was the word whispered behind shaky hands at the Jumping Snail and Snoad - the local pub down the street.
