I take the last flight
out of Heathrow to Si-Boston last night and am amazed to find myself
being brushed aside at the security gates by some hulking brute of a
figure. As I turn to raise myself up to my full five feet nine inches
of bristling quivering wreck, I realise the incredible hulk is
protecting a frail, skeletal figure. Blonde, pouting and with few airs
and graces, the poor wee thing turns out to be none other than Posh
Spice, a.k.a. Mrs. Beckham. And she’s followed by a tall, thin figure
with a wooly hat and loads of tattoos … none other than god’s gift to football, Mr. Golden Balls himself, David Beckham (nothing to do with
As I live near Chigwell, I’m not going to
take too much of the mickey though, as I know they’d both come back to
see David’s dad, who has just suffered from an almost critical heart
So why mention this here?
Well, I can’t believe Posh and Becks are going to SIBOS, so I follow them.
and round the airport we went, with them moving faster and faster and
me having to hoist my laptop case over my shoulder to keep up. At the
last minute, the hulk grabbed me and asked what the hell I wanted?
"I just wondered why Posh and Becks are going to SIBOS?" I yelp.
"They’re not, they’re going to LA you jerk", big boy growled as he threw me a few hundred yards back down the runway.
Ah well, you can’t always be right can you?
And at least I’ve made it here, even if they didn’t.
it’s a quick once around the exhibition floor and am now whizzing into
the first conference session which focuses upon the 21st century funds
management industry. Sounds much more interesting than nail varnish
and England’s celebrity heroes any day?