Often, when watching Alias, I wonder how Sydney Bristow manages to con top intenational spies simply by a change of clothes and an old mop hastily hacked into a wig and dyed red.
Surely by now, all secret organisations would be on the look out for a pretty lady with a button nose and the face of a scared gerbil?
I'm musing about this after Sunday at the Black Cap. Suddenly, across the room I spied a cute man with very trendy hair, and most wonderfully expensive casual clothes - he had the whole appearance of the kind of man you'd hope to find in a gay bar in Camden Town - ruthlessly sophisticated, arty, and urbanely urban.
Burning with desire for this exotic species, I began chatting him up... and gradually realised the awful truth.
"Hang on," I said, "Is your name Danny?"
"Had you at Christmas."
Last time I saw him he was a skinhead in sports gear with his top open and bling.