I’M SUMMONED into the presence of Crystal Tits. It’s a rare honour, her excursions on to the floor of the Evening Beast newsroom are becoming rarer and rarer since the latest disastrous ABC figures leaked out.

I enter her office and stand to attention. She sits behind a magnificent desk, rumoured to have been imported from Milan. A bowl of flowers, changed daily, sits to one side; a pile of expensive wallpaper samples, destined for the office walls, sits to the other. Her impressive embonpoint advances menacingly across the desk towards me. The air is thick with a perfume I later discover to be Poison, in many senses.

‘Ah, Grey.’It’s the husky voice, so she obviously wants something. She glances down at a piece of paper. ‘Throughout 2008, the editorial discipline will concentrate on crucial audience-building initiatives designed to drill deep into