I once pretended to be the novelist Jay McInery. This was ages ago (late 80s/early 90s) and somehow I ended up at the launch party at the Groucho for one of his novels (his third one, I think, I can't remember its title). Anyway, I was really slaughtered and as I was leaving I was waiting for my mate and I just happened to be hanging around by a stand containing a stack of the new novel. McInery wasn't in attendance at the party, and the cheapskate publishers were trying to flog new editions to the attendees (which tells me it wasn't the classiest of launches). Anyway this idiotically posh, merchant banking looking guy wanders up to me asks about the novel. Without waiting, or thinking, I just went into: Hi I'm Jay, I said, this is my novel etc etc etc. I kept on at him and actually forced him to buy a copy which I then, with a flourish, signed. And what's your name, I asked. He told me and I wrote: To (whatever) Read it and weep! Regards Jay McInery...
So there you go - there's some posh twat wandering around London with a signed first edition of a Jay McInery book that wasn't signed by the author but by me! Ha! Ha! Ha!