You didn't remain impartial Mark Thompson, you exposed your bias.
Bricks, squashed tomatoes and indeed shoes may be posted to his BBC HQ office at Television Centre, Wood Lane, London, W12 7RJ

Extract from Friday at Kaaitheater

I’m from Manchester in the UK and I’ve lived in cities all my life. I’ve lived off food I’ve got out of bins for six months at a time.
It was a fun thing to do with friends.

What we did was meet up in the evening, after the pub or whatever, and cycle round the smaller supermarkets of the city, hopping in the bins at the back and picking through the see-through plastic bags picking out what was edible. Bag of pineapples? Magic. , for example, Bag of beef? Eurgh, put that back in! My all time favourite skipped food finds have to be…No 1 the forty bunches of Marks & Spencer’s flowers – we gave them away to everyone on the main road, they were like Oh that’s so nice are you really sure are they for free?! And we were like, we just got them out of the bins, on you go! And then No 2 the great mango and cabbage find, literally about 40 of each, mangoes not even ripe yet. My friend made a lot of chutney. And then finally No 3 is when they recalled Maltesers, that was a good one. They got everywhere.
We’d take loads of bags with us, and divide out the food into bags for different people that we’d then drop off on our way home. You’d put in all the things you thought each person or household would like the most – no cheese for them, they’re vegans, all the ricotta for Thom, he’ll use it, and flowers? They have to go to Scarlet, she loves them and so on.

I like statistics which are expressed in humans, so for example, 1 in 15 people think Obama is actually going to make some changes, or 1 in 2 people have tried cat biscuits or, I remember in secondary school when someone found scientific proof on the internet that 1 in 3 people were definitely gay, and the whole class looked round the room of like 30 of us and realised that meant 10 of us were gay but we were 12 and we didn’t know if we were one of the gay ones or not so it was quite exciting.
So, 1 in 5 people in the UK live below the poverty line, in Belgium it is 1 in 10. Meanwhile, across Europe, 30-40% of food put on the shelves ends up in the bin. In the UK an organisation formed to get some more numbers on it. For me there was a clear winner for the worst and therefore kind of the best statistic. Guess how many whole chickens are thrown away in the UK every day? Any guesses? 5,500 whole chickens. Each day. Shit. Sqwauk.

a pretty good day.

Early wake up with phone calls and buzzes and there's folks on the sofa and an invite for breakfast where there's beans and squishy skipped bananas and ach - we'll make a plan on the way. Wobbling bikes lugging cardboard gun, wedding dress, banana skins, bouquets of wilting flowers and a fat suit.
First stop the bank, where there's an organised protest – placards and leaflets and a megaphone and in we go without a thought and blag and blah and ask the questions that they can't answer until we're firmly escorted out.
I wanna do something but I don't know what.
There's a samba band around the corner – Let's get 'em round here.
I'm bored. Let's buy loo roll and throw it in. Let's write messages on it.
Let's go.
Catch youse soon.

That shop window's got a door in - we just have to dodge the guard - catch him off guard.
OK, hold my gun - let's go. One by one we step, grinning into the readymade playground.
I pull down my new-man-the-mannequins trendy trousers and hold his hand and ask the gathering crowd: “SHOPPING IS...?”
“That's the police on the way”.
“SHOPPING IS...SEXY?
“You'll have to leave now”
“SHOPPING IS...BORING.”
And off we go and it must be time to distribute these flowers salvaged from the bins in all their cellophane glory. We shower the band with confetti and dance along to find those most deserving of the flowers.
A couple parting – here, you get him, I'll get her – say they're from each other.
Another guard. But he wont have it – he's got his image to think about.
And then there's folk in the window – wedding dress and fat suit, telling a strange love story of super bargains.
We chat to the guy who's visiting from Nigeria. He says "if it looks too good to be true, it probably is", but eventually he accepts the flowers and as far as we know they brought him no ills. He can't imagine that we'd ever make our way to Nigeria on our bikes, but he certainly likes the sound of us trying.
After some negotiation the bargain bride and bulging companion are released from the shop with no more than a strained groin and a confused shop-manager. BHS has never known such excitement.
On then, on.

GIVE BLOOD says the sign and so we obey - “can you keep moving round please”. Each time a chair becomes free we move camp. Dresses and fat-suits and crumpled guns and all. This is very important, despite the fact that there's nobody waiting behind us.
Giving blood isn't as simple as it seemed.
The tricky questionnaire filters most of us out but I scrape through and leave a pint of myself behind.
Then it's on to McGills for karaoke (and replacing those lost fluids) but it's a no-goer so we creep underground for the free preview and out for the trudge home.
May as well lets stick our heads in the bin eh? And the trudge home is harder but merrier with bags of food to share out over tea and snoozes and banging loud crazy tunes. And in the background there's bikes to be fixed, sculptures to be made, friends to be met, dogs to be walked and then the party to fill the night.
That was a pretty good day by the way.
(Though we never did find a use for that cardboard gun).

Things are getting sticky

So I thought I'd leave you a little something to wake up to, little B.  On a regular basis.