PASSING through Heathrow security, I overheard a posh English accent speaking "uent Arabic to a security guard with Islamic beard and cap. Recognising Dalkey resident Robert Fisk, I couldn't resist greeting him in the same tongue. A Punjabi security guard said she wished she'd brought Fisk's latest book to sign. Special branch men . . . as conspicuous as only plain-clothes coppers can be . . . did not appreciate Fisk's Gaelic greeting, or my own Punjabi thanks. Fisk was on his way from Australia to Belfast. He seemed restless for new dangers. I nearly missed my "ight.

London, Thursday, 5 October In the Dublin office, followed by indoor soccer. Up at "ve on Thursday morning for the 07.20 Aer Lingus "ight back to Heathrow. Taxis make sense since they're now reliable (if they know you're airport-bound). They can speed through bus lanes while you doze or make calls, and drop you off outside check-in. Three days in shortterm parking costs the same as a return journey.

Paddington fast train is the quickest way in. The underground remains quickest to the City though it's sweaty, bags attract nervous glances and mobiles don't work.

At 11am I appeared on Tom Winnifrith's stock market TV share tipping service. The London-Irish stalwart's target audience are traders, not long-term investors.

They care little for underlying value, but provide liquidity by transacting. Traders were not having a happy month . . . but that makes them more open to ideas.

Luckily the Pan Andean report was being delivered that week, so it was safe to stick to the contents. You're supposed to inform all shareholders simultaneously.

Historically, authorities allowed managers to elaborate through broadsheets or broadcasting. The assumption is that the information is in the public domain, though they prefer formal channels.

Now regulators worldwide are tightening standards and think this is achieved by forcing companies to issue statements few punters understand. They want all facts independently corroborated. But equally they want prompt disclosure. The two objectives are incompatible in speculative stocks.

Subtlety is wasted on traders and intermediaries.

They have no social conscience and think vision is overvalued. They want a quick buck.

You have 60 seconds air-time, of which the punters concentrate for about 20. You must think in soundbites . . . talk less and say more. Prepare at length, but distil the essentials. It's more interesting for listeners if your answers seem like responses to their questions, but they rarely ask the right questions. Put a positive gloss, but don't mislead. Speak slowly, directly and reasonably.

The questioner is trying to draw you out . . . and sometimes catch you out. But he's not the target audience. It's whoever is listening. You're in the entertainment business . . . try not to bore. Be slightly unpredictable, creative . . . let them think you're holding something back.

Tom asked why don't I try a normal job. Because it would be boring. A better answer is that 'if you want return you must take risk'. This acknowledges uncertainty but focuses listeners on the upside.

The exercise worked in that gifted amateur way of the English gentleman: born to rule India but making a living tipping shares to Birmingham's Indian entrepreneurs. It is the antithesis of the BBC.

You'd think the last people to ask about future share prices are insiders: they may know but rarely tell. They talk their book. You can't expect them to draw attention to weaknesses. Asking an insider to choose among his different investments is like asking a parent to choose between his children.

But at least insiders understand the business.

Typically intermediaries, spin doctors and radio gurus have only super"cial understanding. They're interested in fees.

Once you're in London, you can see many people in a short period, though you must give notice. Turning up on spec is frowned on, even if they're idle.

We met our engineering team over lunch, our stockbrokers and equity analyst in the afternoon. The alumni day of my business alma mater, Boston Consulting Group, was on in Mayfair. But by the time I escaped it was late . . . another shameful failure to catch up with old colleagues, who gave me my "rst business break.

A founder of the London Indie half-invited me to their 20th anniversary bash, but Friday was scheduled to be heavy and we didn't want to appear hungover.

Instead we went to the Iranian-British Chamber of Commerce dinner but it was over-booked. So it was pints and a self-congratulatory dinner. Over starters we agreed that our share price was undervalued. After dinner it should be quadrupled. But value is an overvalued concept. By the time the bill was paid, we wouldn't sell at any price!

London, Friday 5 October A long but fruitful Friday with thorough German bankers, Trade Bank of Iraq delegation and our local partners conducted in various tongues. I skipped lunch to meet a senior Iraqi oilman at the Waldorf who had escaped from Exxon-Mobil's clutches for an hour. The rain fell relentlessly as we marvelled at the quaint impracticality of one of London's great hotels. As we hailed a cab, he insisted on negotiating the downpour and traf"c to make his way to the BBC side of the street.

It seemed an eloquent re"ection of international events.

We learn about Mick O'Leary's Aer Lingus bid.

Tiredness forgotten, we are refreshed by his classic entrepreneurial behaviour . . . unconcerned by dif"culties and drift away from past focus. Entrepreneurs are driven by opportunity rather than resources or strategy.

They embrace change, rather than moaning.

I regret selling our Aer Lingus shares at 2.39. It's worth more to strategic investor than "nancial investor.

Yet Ryanair, with its cash, nerve and knowledge was an obvious bidder . . . in retrospect. It would be interesting to examine those post-"otation trades!

Tehran airport, Monday 9 October Heathrow isn't the only airport whose security staff have an aversion to liquids. We arrived after midnight, whizzed through immigration . . . including security x-ray checks despite my sports shirt emblazoned with 'Inishowen Whiskey'. Checked in, showered and asleep by 02.30 but up and out by 04.30.

Through the initial security x-ray machine, checkedout, a "nal security check and the dreaded question.

"What's in that bottle, sir?" Suddenly the idea of a celebratory drink over a successful drill campaign looked less likely. I started to walk away but was politely invited to open the bag. Out came a bottle of 12-year-old Connemara peated malt . . . a Midnight Express moment!

Of"cials escorted me back to the "rst checkpoint, where the guard was ticked off for not spotting the bottle. They then invited me into an of"ce, where my passport was scrutinised. "Isn't Belfast in Britain?"

asked the policeman. "No, it's where Bobby Sands came from, " answered the plain clothes man. "We'll have to keep the whiskey, sir . . . half the airport has seen it, " handing me an of"cial receipt stamped and signed.

Fair cop!

The policeman handled the Connemara peated malt with due reverence. "Don't worry, we'll look after it!", he assured me, before escorting me back through security and onto our internal "ight.

I thought the locals would be offended, this being the fasting month of Ramadan. Instead they seemed amused at head boy being caught out by teacher.

"They'll always get you on domestic "ights, " advised one traveller. "Send it by car next time."

There seems little likelihood of the peated malt treasure being poured down the drain. That really would be a crime against humanity!