Our man at Bilderberg: in pursuit of the world’s most powerful cabal

I don’t quite know why I’m on a flight to Athens, except that it seems like the right thing to do. I’m flying out on a last minute whim to hang around outside a conference which may, or may not, be happening and to which I’ve not been invited. None of you has.

You won’t have read about it. You won’t have seen a guest list, you won’t see photographs of it. It isn’t happening. It doesn’t exist. I’m flying out to Athens for no reason at all. To have a holiday I don’t deserve and can’t really afford. Maybe catch a little sunstroke, grab some food poisoning, and come home. Pointless.

Unless, of course, the rumours are true. Unless, as a handful of people are saying, this weekend is Bilderberg. The yearly alignment of the distant stars that shape our destiny. A long weekend at a luxury hotel, where the world’s elite get to shake hands, clink glasses, fine-tune their global agenda and squabble over who gets the best sun loungers. I’m guessing that Henry Kissinger brings his own, has it helicoptered in and guarded 24/7 by a CIA special ops team.

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