Not only did her golfing husband, Nick, replace her with a blonde half his (and her) age last year, now her new lover has dumped her too. Thankfully, lucky old Gill has some great advice to help her through.Lynda Lee-Potter of the Daily Mail says she should stop chasing younger men and showering them with gifts, and use some of her multi-million divorce settlement to become thinner and more stylish Lynda - you're a treasure. Running about after a man 12 years her junior! And, of all things, a smoothly tanned tennis coach! What was she thinking of?These are difficult times for Gill. The local press decided they were planning A Rave, and that was the end of that.I can think of few things worse than actually having to go to one of these events - but nothing worse than finding that I am no longer allowed to.At 39, Gill Faldo really should know better. (The legislation would be no less objectionable, had it been, but I might regard the Home Office in a rather different light.) As I understood it, the act was all about stopping ravers rampaging through the land, and neglecting to clean up after themselves. It was not, I thought, intended to outlaw anything more ambitious than a picnic.Strictly speaking, I was right. But legal nicety will offer little solace to groups like the Big Chill, the latest in a depressing variety of festival organisers to learn that their impeccably laid plans - for a modest party in Norfolk next month - are not good enough.

They are also very popular with stupid people who have lost their friends, and see no reason why you shouldn't step in as a substitute.Sadly, I cannot imagine it was these sort of misgivings which inspired the Criminal Justice Act. You cannot always hope to rely on the driver's ineptitude, and there's every risk, if you set off to enough of the things, that one night you might actually get there This is nothing short of a catastrophe. Outdoor dance parties involve terrible music, gormless dancing, and mud. When the door finally opened, and we fell out, blinking and bruised, we were back where we had started in Manchester, the only obvious fruits of our adventure a flat tyre and a resolve, on my part, never to embark on anything so manifestly ill- advised again.A British summer brings many untoward dangers, but few as grave as the possibility of finding yourself at one of these events. It seems a shame, however, to have to come all this way in order to be reminded why trade unions might not be a bad idea, or why the Winter of Discontent is not the only piece of labour history worth acquainting oneself with.On the crawl back into London, we stopped off for a paper The Labour leader, we learned, had had a change of heart.

He doesn't think the tube drivers should be allowed to go on strike, after all.The last time I allowed myself to be talked into some remote, late-night open-air party, I passed six unhappy hours wedged in the back of a van with a strange and garrulous South African girl, while the driver negotiated the inky mysteries of the Pennines Snake Pass. Alongside hang pictures of latter-day TUC officials - these dangerous men and women hell-bent on bringing down the country; people whose attachment to words like "comrade" makes me, in more mindless moments, snigger.Tolpuddle is a charming spot to visit. In the cool of the Tolpuddle Martyrs' museum, their faces stare out from the walls like a sepia reproach. There's nothing I haven't learned about union thugs holding the country to ransom.