14 February, 8:30am, Olympic Room: All I did was josh Posh Girl about her short skirt, asking if she had a hot date tonight. I may have winked, but it was a friendly wink.

Agent P

Women! What’s up with them these days? Can’t take a joke. I got one of her ‘hell-freezer’ stares. Spare me. She’s a looker, and uses it. We all know how GBH wrested the mandate from Carter Jonas to manage the dwindling Yorkshire estate of that old aristo.

I’m pretty pissed off, but grin my devil-may-care grin. “Sporty Girl, how about you? Fancy the Punchbowl? There will be Valentine candles on the tables.”

I’d rather date her horse – it’s meant as a joke. “Steady on, old chap,” stutters Posh Boy.

OK, that’s it: you try and keep things friendly. But they need to know who’s Capo. Everyone is so bloody ‘woke’ these days it makes me sick.

I give Posh Boy the death stare. “Look at you in your chinos and Jermyn Street suede shoes! Bet you’ve got a little lady lined up for tonight. Or have you? My old senior partner used to say watch out for men in suede shoes.”

I don’t feel the room is with me.

Best storm out.