The disparities between the advertised, and real event were such that you wondered if there could have been some kind of mistake. Weren’t Tower Bridge and the Thames meant to be somehow involved, instead of just picturesquely adjacent? And on telly, a wide-eyed Nicky Campbell had referred repeatedly to “solitary confinement”. Blaine had also stressed a desire for “no distractions… I think that’s the purest state you could be in… ” In practice, he has made his lit-up box the pinnacle of a non-stop party. Passing riverboats and vans tootle jolly hellos at him. Women wave. Spectators guffaw more or less in his face, shout at him to “put the kettle on”, mime flying with their arms, threaten to come back with signs reading: “Are you mental or what?” When, laboriously, Blaine wraps a sheet round himself and makes as if to wee into a hidden tube, there are uproarious shouts of, “He’s having a piss!”; then, “He can’t still be having a piss”; then, “No – he’s wanking!”; then – after the business is seemingly complete – hearty cheers and applause.