The death of Alan MacDonald was reported modestly, in passing: a paragraph on the social page of the Daily Mail. I think he would have liked the idea of his death making the papers, if his death hadn't been so peculiar. But I am just guessing.

I felt sorry for the dead man, going in those circumstances. I thought of Hilaire Belloc. I wondered whether God has a sense of humour. I wondered whether I am a bad person for wondering, in this context, whether God has a sense of humour.

This is not the first I've heard of Alan MacDonald.

At Christmas 2008, I wrote an article in this paper about the Jolley Gang. I had heard whispers of a seedy crew, led by a convicted fraudster named Terence Jolley, who make a hobby out of gatecrashing.

They gatecrash book launches. They gatecrash wine-tastings. Their favourite scam (because the food and booze are generous, and the questions few) is to gatecrash funerals.

They applied for seats at my father's memorial service. Fair enough; my father, a writer and broadcaster, was a public figure. We did reserve some space in the church (though not at the private reception afterwards) for readers of his work.

But the Jolley Gang did not describe themselves as readers. They pretended they had known him. Their interest lay not in paying tribute to his life, but in cadging free drinks off his family.

My father having lived for nearly 70 years, I couldn't prove that these people had never met him. So, being a stubborn sort of girl, offended by their tacky cheek and the insult to my father's memory, I set a trap.

I invented a wealthy industrialist called Sir William Ormerod, dotting his fictional life story around the internet. I then announced his death, and (in the guise of Sir William's heartbroken boyfriend) a lavish memorial for friends and family. I immediately received emails from the gang, telling anecdotes of happy times spent in Sir William's company, asking for the address and date. Got 'em!

Plan A was to go ahead with an entire fake memorial service and fill all the free sandwiches with laxative. Reluctantly putting this idea aside, I decided to write about them and hope that would be enough to end their little game.

I know, I know, the laxatives would have been more fun. But I was trying to be grown-up about it.

Unfortunately, the Jolleys' jollies continued. In the 15 months since that article, they have not stopped leeching off grieving families. If anything, their gall has grown.

In December, for example, the BBC website reported that the funeral of Coronation Street actress Maggie Jones had been "a beautiful and dignified private service for family, close friends and members of the cast".

It was, in fact, a beautiful and dignified service for family, close friends, members of the cast, and the Jolley Gang. Terence Jolley actually phoned ahead to ask the funeral director if food and drink would be served.

Did I expect things to be any different? I hoped they would. One of the gang gave me a personal promise.

Terence Jolley, the ringleader, was the only one that I knew for certain was a thoroughly bad egg. The others… well, maybe they were just weak. Maybe he did all the lying and they just came along for the ride. I hoped their consciences would be struck. Don't imagine daft young scallywags; these are middle-aged, privileged people. They are retired (some of them disgraced) magistrates, financiers, even diplomats. They are not idiots.

I wrote privately to one of them, a chap who makes an income selling diary stories to newspapers. I told him I understood he might want to attend public memorials to get these stories, but he should do it honestly, respectfully, without any lies and without Terence Jolley. He promised that he would, so I agreed not to put his name or photo in the paper.

Don't let me down, my friend, if you are reading this. I know you still go. I know you try to stand apart from the rest of the gang. Keep it that way. Keep even further away. And do switch your mobile off during the service.

What about the others? Ronald, Ilana, I notice you two are still at it. Will the fate of Alan MacDonald stop you, at last? Will you make a quiet resolution as his coffin goes by?

I think you'd better. You'll be in a church. And we just don't know whether God has a sense of humour.

Three weeks ago, the Jolley Gang gatecrashed a party at the Dorchester to celebrate the national day of Kuwait. They mingled with Kuwaiti dignitaries. They enjoyed drinks provided by the Kuwaiti ambassador. And one of them, Alan MacDonald, choked to death on a canapé.

What a strange, strange end to a life. You see why I thought of Hilaire Belloc. If this is the last page of the story, it's a poetic one.

How did you get there, Alan? You were 61 years old. A retired banker from a smart family. You had every chance. What attracted you to a fat fraudster like Terence Jolley? How did you feel, mingling at parties where you weren't invited?

What took you down that path which led to your final collapse, in a crowd of baffled strangers, on a mouthful of blagged canapé?

You were unmarried and childless; were you lonely? Your father, a vice-admiral, had been a royal aide; did you feel an entitlement to every circle? Or were you just bored?

I am grimly fascinated by this black-comic mob, without understanding their motivations. I can't be sure that this grisly twist will stop them. I'm superstitious; it would certainly stop me. But the curious behaviour of others… it's only ever guesswork in the dark.

Alan MacDonald's funeral is tomorrow. I considered going. But I didn't know the man.

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