WASHED AND READY TO EAT

The London 2012 torch procession has been great entertainment. It seems that if you want to carry the thing, your best bet is to claim that you're a stalwart of that much-admired community organisation The B-List Actors' Guild. Unless, of course, you've been picked by a corporate sponsor or transported from overseas like that unfortunate American lady whose tattoo artist couldn't spell Olympic. Yesterday, after a brief intervention by uber-luvvie Patrick Stewart - 'Make it Glow, Number One' - we were transported to the fictional world of Walford, where real-life cops were paid to protect make-believe Eastenders characters from a potential attack by a deranged extra. 'Tell 'em to hurry up, guv. We got to be up west in three quarters of an hour...' In many ways, this blurring of truth and untruth could be a metaphor for the whole Olympic adventure. Real-world stadia protected by imaginary G4S security guards. The opening ceremony is rumoured to b...

News reaches me from the antipodes of a man who has developed an ingenious method of feeding himself for free . He's simply been turning up at funerals - several a week according to Radio New Zealand - and filling up doggy bags with the grub generously provided at the wake. Although his behaviour is recognised to be anti-social and a little extreme, the 'grim eater' is apparently not unique. According to the RNZ reporter, 'funeral directors say serial funeral-goers and fake mourners are not uncommon'. I have images of Steve Coogan's beautifully observed character Alan Partridge in a Castrol GTX jacket. The story has got me wondering how easy it would be to blag breakfast at a top hotel. Just stroll in, smile at the staff and help yourself to the buffet. (One thing I've observed over the years is that the trashier the hotel, the more officious they are in checking you off their list and making sure you're bona fide. The posher the gaff, the less they wor...