Greg Dixon's weekend

WAITER, THERE'S A DRUNK IN MY SOUP

The long lunch is a very fine thing. You might call it one of the great trappings of civilisation, and I have been known to stretch the midday meal until temporary paralysis of the legs has set in. Now I call three hours a good, long lunch. But then I am a mere amateur. Unlike Bill Ralston, who can lunch for his country. And this week he seems to have established a record harking back to the heady days of the 80s. For six hours - yes, six hours - he and his companions gobbled and gulped at Prego in Ponsonby. Towards the end - about the time other patrons were coming in for dinner - the staff decided that one of the party had done his dash. One of Ralston's companions needed to be helped out of the restaurant.Calls for more wines, beers and spirits went ignored. When the companion staggered out after 7pm, it was not wholly under his own steam. As the restaurant delicately put it, "he could not walk by the end". Pressed on who was there and whether it was business or pleasure, Mr Ralson said: "I'm not getting into any discussion except to say no TVNZ funding was involved. Thankyou, goodbye."

MUCK IN A MINUTE

Staying with catering, it is a great shame for the nation that Her Majesty's Ship Jonathan Hunt has set sail from Parliament for a retirement cruise as Our Man in London. A shame, because the chap once dubbed The Minister For Wine And Cheese, a fellow who openly celebrated our nation's fat larder, has been replaced by a woman. A woman, I swiftly add, who is frankly no gourmet or gourmand. Those with long memories will recall that new speaker Margaret Wilson was once a raven-haired beauty (see above) to Selwyn Toogood's baldy beast on the agony aunt TV show Beauty And The Beast. However, you may have forgotten the 1978 BATB cookbook. In it she declares she "has little or no interest in food" before proffering recipes for such awful muck as silverbeet casserole (very cheap), cheese toast (my favourite snack) and potato casserole (not a recipe for those with a weight problem). At least she'll know what to do with all those vegetables in the House.

KEEPING ABREAST OF THE NEWS

Clearly it's something in the water. There can be no other explanation for this country's obsession with removing clothing to strike a blow against Royalty. In the 80s, it was Dun Mihaka delivering that ancient Maori insult, the brown-eye. This year's model is the topless sheila. Enough, I say. And to show my disapproval of this form of protest I will protest on Queen St this very afternoon. I'll be easy to spot. I'll be topless. And across my famous barrel chest will be written: "You're Getting On My Tits."