Trovato goes in Seine

The Dirty Blonde threatened to release the photographs if I didn't get to Paris by the end of the week.

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I had no idea what she was talking about and, quite frankly, didn't want to know.

Very smart women always gather what the Russians call kompromat on those with whom they dally. It's what the Russians and Israelis have on that decomposing bag of orange sludge that oozes into the Oval Office when it's not playing golf.

In my case, I knew there was no compromising material involving water sports with hookers or raping underage girls, but Anglo-French women often have the worst of both cultures and can't always be trusted not to manipulate images as easily as they do men. And so it was that I found myself in the international departures area of King Shaka Airport, a godforsaken desolate place with one restaurant that doesn't serve alcohol and a bar with no liquor licence.

"You'll have to buy from duty free," said a woman with a face like a smacked arse, pointing at a hideous Potemkin emporium across the room. The cashier failed to respond when I said there was no need to seal my bounty inside an impregnable evidence bag since it wouldn't be making it onto the plane. I slunk off to a distant corner which I had calculated was a dead spot for the security cameras.