I'd like to think - and perhaps I am being woefully self-deluding here - there are not too many people in the world in whom I inspire outright loathing. Unfortunately, for a journalist who writes about consumer affairs, in my case the list is headed by Sir Philip Green. The great rag trade knight (don't dare call him mister)  and I have not hit it off since I wrote what was only a mildly less than totally flattering profile some years ago when he bought Arcadia. I still wince when a I recall the phone-call I took from Britain's favourite tax exile that night on my mobile. It ended with the journalistic equivalent of the total breaking of diplomatic relations between him and all the organisations he controls and the Standard. Fortunately there was eventually a thawing and a year or so later I spoke to Sir Philip about his financial results. Again, a reasonably balanced piece followed (or so I thought) and again the blistering "hairdryer" rant. The same once more when we (or more specifically I) reported the £1 billion dividend he paid himself and his family from Arcadia profits. I'm sorry, but there comes a point when a chap has to ask himself where a relationship is going wrong. I am now cast into the outer darkness. When Sir Philip recently got in touch with the Standard about the very solid results from his empire he specifically asked that Jonathan Pr*** (modesty prevents me from writing his nickname for me but suffice it to say it rhymes with Sir Francis Crick) should not be allowed to write them up. Fair enough but I do wish the great man would let bygones be bygones. It really isn't worth a billionaire's time to get so worked up about a humble scribe. No-one bows in admiration more than me for Sir Philip's many achievements. I don't ever expect to be invited to one of his extraordinary birthday bashes. But given that he might be the only retailer left standing when the recessionary dust has settled it would be nice if we could at least talk. Sir Philip, give me a call some time.