Society spectres are back at the feast Victoria Coren Comment is free The Observer

The genocide of Alan MacDonald was reported modestly, in passing: a divide on the amicable page of the Daily Mail. I think he would have prime the thought of his genocide creation the papers, if his genocide hadn"t been so peculiar. But I am usually guessing.

I felt contemptible for the passed man, going in those circumstances. I thought of Hilaire Belloc. I wondered either God has a clarity of humour. I wondered either I am a bad chairman for wondering, in this context, either God has a clarity of humour.

This is not the initial I"ve listened of Alan MacDonald.

At Yuletide 2008, I wrote an essay in this paper about the Jolley Gang. I had listened whispers of a decrepit crew, led by a convicted fraudster declared Terence Jolley, who have a hobby out of gatecrashing.

They gatecrash book launches. They gatecrash wine-tastings. Their prime fraud (because the food and splash are generous, and the questions few) is to gatecrash funerals.

They practical for seats at my father"s commemorative service. Fair enough; my father, a bard and broadcaster, was a open figure. We did haven a little space in the church (though not at the in isolation accepting afterwards) for readers of his work.

But the Jolley Gang did not report themselves as readers. They simulated they had well known him. Their seductiveness lay not in profitable reverence to his life, but in cadging free drinks off his family.

My father carrying lived for scarcely 70 years, I couldn"t infer that these people had never met him. So, being a realistic sort of girl, annoyed by their run-down impertinence and the insult to my father"s memory, I set a trap.

I invented a rich nobleman called Sir William Ormerod, dotting his illusory hold up story around the internet. I afterwards voiced his death, and (in the guise of Sir William"s sad boyfriend) a intemperate commemorative for friends and family. I rught afar perceived emails from the gang, revelation anecdotes of happy times outlayed in Sir William"s company, asking for the residence and date. Got "em!

Plan A was to go forward with an complete feign commemorative use and fill all the free sandwiches with laxative. Reluctantly putting this thought aside, I motionless to write about them and goal that would be sufficient to finish their littlegame.

I know, I know, the laxatives would have been some-more fun. But I was perplexing to be grown-up about it.

Unfortunately, the Jolleys" jollies continued. In the fifteen months given that article, they have not stopped leeching off lamentation families. If anything, their gall has grown.

In December, for example, the BBC website reported that the wake of Coronation Street singer Maggie Jones had been "a pleasing and cool in isolation use for family, close friends and members of the cast".

It was, in fact, a pleasing and cool use for family, close friends, members of the cast, and the Jolley Gang. Terence Jolley essentially phoned forward to ask the wake executive if food and splash would be served.

Did I design things to be any different? I hoped they would. One of the squad gave me a personal promise.

Terence Jolley, the ringleader, was the usually one that I knew for certain was a entirely bad egg. The others… well, may be they were usually weak. Maybe he did all the lying and they usually came along for the ride. I hoped their consciences would be struck. Don"t suppose dumb immature scallywags; these are middle-aged, absolved people. They are late (some of them disgraced) magistrates, financiers, even diplomats. They are not idiots.

I wrote secretly to one of them, a guy who creates an income offered diary stories to newspapers. I told him I accepted he competence wish to attend open memorials to get these stories, but he should do it honestly, respectfully, but any lies and but Terence Jolley. He betrothed that he would, so I concluded not to put his name or print in the paper.

Don"t let me down, my friend, if you are celebration of the mass this. I know you still go. I know you try to mount detached from the rest of the gang. Keep it that way. Keep even serve away. And do switch your mobile off during the service.

What about the others? Ronald, Ilana, I notice you dual are still at it. Will the predestine of Alan MacDonald stop you, at last? Will you have a still fortitude as his coffin goes by?

I think you"d better. You"ll be in a church. And we usually don"t know either God has a clarity of humour.

Three weeks ago, the Jolley Gang gatecrashed a celebration at the Dorchester to applaud the inhabitant day of Kuwait. They mingled with Kuwaiti dignitaries. They enjoyed drinks supposing by the Kuwaiti ambassador. And one of them, Alan MacDonald, choked to genocide on a canapé.

What a strange, bizarre finish to a life. You see because I thought of Hilaire Belloc. If this is the last page of the story, it"s a elegant one.

How did you get there, Alan? You were 61 years old. A late landowner from a intelligent family. You had each chance. What captivated you to a fat fraudster similar to Terence Jolley? How did you feel, connecting at parties where you weren"t invited?

What took you down that trail that led to your last collapse, in a throng of confused strangers, on a swig of blagged canapé?

You were unwed and childless; were you lonely? Your father, a vice-admiral, had been a stately aide; did you feel an desert to each circle? Or were you usually bored?

I am grimly preoccupied by this black-comic mob, but bargain their motivations. I can"t be certain that this gruesome turn will stop them. I"m superstitious; it would positively stop me. But the extraordinary poise of others… it"s usually ever guesswork in the dark.

Alan MacDonald"s wake is tomorrow. I deliberate going. But I didn"t know the man.

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