It's heartening that Britain's loathing of David Blaine shows no sign of abating.
Amid the passing fads and fashions of modern life, our on-going contempt for his nauseating brand of pompous self-publicity shines like a beacon. In the latest attack, a man used a catapault to fire balloons filled with pink paint at Blaine's perspex box.
Even the normally high-minded Economist has got in on the act, carrying an article on Blaine's stunt and quoting from the Philadelphia Inquirer article I mentioned last weekend.
I'm starting to feel a little bit sorry for David Blaine. If his stunt is genuine (which I'm still not convinced it is) then the constant jeers, eggs and paint bombs must be really doing his head in, considering he hasn't eaten for 21 days. I get grouchy enough when I skip breakfast.
Actually, on reflection, forget I said that. I don't feel sorry for him at all. The self-important prick deserves everything he gets.