2005-02-23 - 5:32 p.m.

The front page of the evening newspaper the other day scanned weird: THREAT TO DRIVE LONDON BLACK CABS OFF THE ROAD. HUNTER S THOMPSON SHOOTS HIMSELF.

Of course, the two were unrelated but the bad layout made it amusing to think that Mr Gonzo had topped himself as a protest. �I cannot live in a world without outdated, overpriced private hire vehicles� ran the suicide note.

Er, anyway.

I put the word out to the travel PR industry that I was looking for trips to pitch and it was like dropping freshly butchered mince meat into a bowl of starving piranha, though of course these starving piranha dress head to foot in black Gucci and the water in the bowl is blood-flecked expensive Sauvignon Blanc.

A flurry of invites, including lunch today at a restaurant so posh you have to spend ten minutes at the front desk arguing that you have a right to be there. Or perhaps that was just me. Much as I enjoyed it, I was sad to be seated with my back to the room. Call me an ungrateful journo lunch whore, but if I have to sit through thinly-veiled sales presentations whilst eating salads that would look more at home in a Petri dish, I at least want to be able to ogle pissed-up minor celebrities having conspicuously drunken meals.

I assume the Witches of PRwick wanted me to focus on how great their product was, though sadly I was still unable to oblige as I was busy trying to find an edible flake of actual fish on my something-something-ed sea bass (Pan roasted? Wok char-grilled? Test-tube parboiled?).

Luckily, there were several actual successful journalists there as well, so I could at least pester them and steal all their contacts. People can be very polite sometimes.

Two glasses of wine is the worst amount of alcohol ever invented. All you get is that �I now want to drink the output of a small vineyard� feeling. Again, maybe that�s just me.