It is almost a demonstration of what it is to be famous for doing nothing; it might almost be a vicious parody of the kind of celebrity emerging from Big Brother and going to film premieres.The almost mythical figure here is a woman called Charlotte Cutler, who occasionally gets her photograph in the papers. They didn't understand the blankness of their own spectacle; the sense that anything, now, could happen, and it was out of their control.The event quickly turned into a demonstration of the clash between cynical London and pompous America; despite themselves, into a show about the self-promoting absurdity of global celebrity, with its private police forces and humourless self-regard.David Blaine describes himself as a magician, but unless, at the last, he suddenly vanishes, it is as hard to see not eating as a trick, any more than you can see it as a work of art. Indeed, when the long-suppressed exuberance of the London mob started to surface, with eggs and paint being thrown, with barbecues being held underneath the cell, with the raucous taunts and mockery, the initial response from the Blaine camp was outrage.They seemed to believe that this was pure spectacle, to which only one approved response was possible, and tried to enforce it with private security measures, behaving unacceptably like policemen.I wish the real police would do something to curb these excesses committed by the security staff of American celebrities.One Blaine agnostic was reported to have been carted off by the private security forces and held down before being pelted with eggs, an action which I rather think constitutes assault. I myself haven't been to see it, but there seems no real reason to refrain from writing about it for that reason. The reality of the event is to be found in what is happening around him.

The only interest to be found in the Blaine event is as a blank space, a stretch of nothingness, onto which almost anything at all can be projected.What we are looking at, really, is the behaviour of the crowd, the commentary in the media on Blaine, on the crowd, on its own commentary; at something which illustrates the nature of our society and our ideas of individual worth now.There is no doubt at all that Blaine and his entourage had absolutely no intention of achieving this. It is hard to see how any court could fail to conclude, given the claim that Blaine's stunt amounts to "art", that he has taken an idea by a celebrated London artist and made a great deal of money out of it.But of course it is not art at all; nor, even, a spectacle to which one might attach the label "magic". If this is so, I rather think that excellent conceptual artist, Cornelia Parker, has a rock-solid case against him for plagiarism.In 1995, as part of an installation at the Serpentine Gallery entitled The Maybe, Miss Parker placed the actress Tilda Swinton in a very similar glass case for extended periods of time, where she could be inspected by the public. But then, of course, there is the crowd.His 44-day suspension has been described by sympathetic obser-vers as a work of art, or merely "art". There is a man in a box suspended from a crane, doing almost nothing. Never before, perhaps, would the traditional instruction of the English policeman have been so appropriate: "Move along there now, sir, there's nothing to see." Never before, perhaps, would the traditional instruction of the English policeman have been so appropriate: "Move along there now, sir, there's nothing to see." In this case, there really is nothing to see, or so it seems.

"It worked like a dream," said Jason.I'm sure Mr Barrett would agree.. He had reached his maximum overdraft level on all his six credit cards, and was seriously considering doing something really drastic like selling his Porsche, when he ran into an old college friend, who took him off for a bottle of bubbly, and told him about the bankruptcy wheeze. They included eating out five nights a week, bottles of champagne at lunchtime, £100 tickets for pop concerts, monthly standing orders for membership of various fashionable clubs and gyms. It was to declare yourself bankrupt, wipe the slate clean, and start again, with a whole new batch of credit cards.One young man called Jason or Jake or Josh, something snappy and modern, gave a brief run-down of his expenses as a twentysomething city slicker. The answer, advised the presenter, had nothing to do with budgeting or working harder, or getting a second job. But each to his own.All this, I appreciate, had little to do with the frightening ease, thanks to credit cards, with which people, especially students, slide into debt these days. I heard a radio programme recently about debt and, more importantly, the easiest way to get out of it.

Personally, I'd rather pay the full whack and avoid the toe-wriggling morale-crushing embarrassment of haggling with some supercilious assistant manager (sales) about the possibility of getting £3.75 off a pressure cooker. Having the chutzpah to nail down a really good deal is something else entirely. A South African dentist renting one of her Clapham flats threatened to shop her to the Inland Revenue if she didn't agree to strip and sand his floors throughout I'd better rephrase that. If she didn't agree to have his floors stripped, sanded and waxed, immediately.But I digress I was telling you about the great school fees heist Did it work? Of course it did Having ready cash is one thing. This seems to be a mutually beneficial arrangement, provided she keeps them supplied with black ash coffee tables and microwave ovens, though she had a nasty scare the other day. It's a question I have often asked myself, but delicacy prohibits me from putting it to her.