Conversations in pubs - and I'm sure this is true of every pub in Britain - now revolve around ways of tormenting David Blaine. People are throwing eggs at his box. Barbecues are being lit underneath his cage to create delicious aromas. A website called "Wake David" is devoted to disrupting his sleep. Laser pens are being pointed into his eyes, giving him a brief panic that he was being sniped.

People of this country, I salute you. I've never felt so proud to be British.

Here are the top ideas that are bouncing around the pubs that I've been drinking in...

• Throw sausages at him. (I like this one)
• During the stages of starvation where hallucinations occur, project Eraserhead onto the side of his box.
• Set up another box alongside him and tuck into a delicious ham shank. (The Sunday Sport thought of this one, too)
• Render the whole spectacle meaningless by filling his water pipe with Mulligatawny soup.
• Get a helicopter, steal his box, and take him to Count Duckula's time travelling castle.
• Get drunk and shout at him. (I like this one too)

However, all these isolated attempts need a little co-ordination to boost their effectiveness. Even my group of around 15 people who've shown an interest aren't enough to truly change the world in the way I feel that throwing sausages at David Blaine could. So I write a letter to London's free commuter paper, The Metro, inviting everyone in London.

This is David Blaine's girlfriend. She fucks magicians.