VIC, a one-man cabaret who sells the Big Issue, was in outstanding form.

"I'm an untouchable, one of the chosen, with more protection orders than a row of stately homes," he said when I saw him in the city centre this week.

Who or what had generated such joy?

"Mr Blair, and my friends in the Government, " he replied. "The new law has closed the final loophole."

He was referring to legislation that, from last weekend, has prohibited age to be used as a handicap to workplace opportunities.

"I'm black, I'm homosexual and I'm 54," he announced to the city at large. "Man, you should be so lucky!"

I pointed out that as a Big Issue salesman, he was technically self-employed, so the new rules made little difference.

"Who says I want to do this job for the rest of my life?" he said. "I'm thinking of making a change. The world is waiting! Perhaps I'll become an MP. No constituency committee would dare to reject me now. Who needs to be a Blair Babe or on Cameron's A list?"

With that, he roared in his familiar, ear-splitting fashion.

He might just mean it.

HE WORE a designer check shirt, designer shorts and sported designer grey stubble. Only green wellingtons and the fact that he was queuing at the Co-op checkout seemed out of place with this example of 50-year-old-plus would-be macho elegance.

Not that there's anything wrong with queuing in the Co-op - some of us do it all the time - but he made a point of telling everyone this was a fresh venture.

He had picked out two bottles of red wine and held one in each hand while waiting his turn. Note: no basket.

An attractive girl entered. She was in her late teens or early 20s.

"K****, darling!" he exclaimed loudly, moving the bottle in his right hand to join the one in his left, freeing an arm to embrace her - something she resisted with a neat side-step.

With one bottle between his first and second finger and the other betwixt third and fourth, his empty right hand was thrust into the pocket of his shorts. He posed and he charmed. His voice rose, and so did his left hand - oft times above shoulder level - complete with bottles. These he twirled like Indian clubs. I was preparing to applaud his dexterity, when. . .

Crash! Both smashed on the floor. Now I could see the sense in wearing those green wellies.

Rather unkindly - but understandably - the girl laughed, while the man blushed, his face and neck the colour of the swirling claret. All that stayed dry was his line in chat.

He apologised to the woman on the till and slunk off to find the manager.

"Poor *****," said the girl, still shaking with laughter. "Mum always said he was a terrible show-off - even at junior school."

SEEN in a Walton Street shop window: Pedigree King Charles spaniel pups for sale. So aristocratic, they come with monogrammed poop-scoops.'