Despite putting forward the notion that having more dough is a good thing, it has long been one of this column's chief propositions that money cannot buy happiness. Now, from Britain, comes dramatic proof of that fact, in a bizarre tale of villainy co-starring someone for whom, until now, I have had the greatest respect: me.

The Guardian newspaper is a lefty British daily, famous mostly for its misprints. I made an appearance in it last week. Three appearances, to be precise. Oddly enough, I did not appear as a writer - the Grauniad rarely publishes the independently minded or the coherent. I was instead named and shamed as the living incarnation of evil.

Good going, eh?

It seems that in 1967, out with some pals one day in London's Carnaby Street, I failed to recognise a friend of my brother. I cannot say I recall failing to recognise him, but then I would not, would I? The fellow told his readership that I saw him and made a decision to cut him dead because he was a "squit". I had no idea what that is, but dictionary.com says it is an Atlantic food fish.

It seems unlikely that, no matter how groovy I was being at the time (my guess would be sensationally groovy), I would have failed to notice a fish flopping around on a city street, but for now, let us say I saw the guy and chose to ignore him.

My memories of the 1960s are not all hazy: I clearly remember this fellow from the many other occasions on which we met. He was a decent sort, tall for his age. His main point in the article, I think, was that almost everything was good in the 1960s. The only bad thing, apparently, was me. I was the Burmese junta of the day, he seemed to be arguing.

He twisted the knife a little more by reporting that I had always been friendly towards him when he was over at our house. In other words, I was once capable of goodness, but had by the summer of love slipped into the embrace of pure evil.

The fellow has become a writer in England and married a painter. I was going to ask if she would like to paint my apartment, but given the fear and loathing I have inspired in her husband, lo these 40 years past, it might have been inappropriate. He has a couple of books out, one of which is about growing up. I would like to read it, but it is probably all about how awful I am, and I am so very tired of books on that subject.

The fellow has become rich and famous despite the crippling body blow I apparently dealt him that day, long ago and far away. Mountains of money and great acclaim clearly have not bought this anguished soul any kind of happiness. I stand in awe of his single-handed determination to claim revenge by working hard at becoming a writer so that he could denounce me for the monster that I once was. Let us give thanks that, since this non-event has tortured him for 41 years, he was finally able to get it off his chest to the Grudiana's umpteen million readers.

I say readers, but hardly anyone actually reads that newspaper. I have tried several times, but with the misprints and pervasive fog of incomprehensibility, it is almost impossible to get through. A friend I lost contact with 28 years ago, who reckoned he would have been part of my "crew" that day in 1967, contacted me to discuss what he called "the now world-renowned Carnaby Street Affront of '67". My brother has subscribed to the Granidude for about 41 years, but he did not read the shocking report of my insensitivity and character-assassinating vileness.

No, I shall not tell you the name of the man I may have snubbed. That would be churlish. I wish him nothing but success. He apparently once shared an apartment with Douglas Adams, a man I never met, but for whom I have the warmest feelings, based on his published writing (Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and others). I am only saddened by the fact that if Adams knew of me at all, it would have been as a hoity-toity prig.

I e-mailed the writer, who has his e-mail address at a grocery store. One imagines he did that so he could have his groceries delivered to his home, saving himself the danger of going out and being ignored by people like my bad self.

He responded by saying that my not unleashing the legal profession on him had released him from his 41-year trauma. I suppose I could have had half a dozen high-powered attorneys on his case until neither of us had any money left, but, you know, time wounds all heels. Groucho Marx said that, and until I came along, he was renowned as one of the great bastards of all time.

So now you know. Wealth has not bought this fellow one iota of happiness and I am an unmitigated swine, capable of inflicting wounds that last for more than four decades.

Since neither of us is getting the job done, perhaps the only formula that might work would be to have money and be a complete beast simultaneously. Try it some time and let me know.

Finally, a bit of good news. I am told that the airport now has free wi-fi. I have not had a chance to check it out yet, because I had a birthday this week, and the car has been in the shop.

I did wander down by the Deliverance in St. George's, and saw a row of cruise ship passengers tapping away on their laptops. Apparently, Ireland Island is another wi-fi zone. I guess I will be spending most of my time there in future. Just pray I do not ignore you and thus scar you for life too.