Geordies are prime cadgers. We know how to touch a likely suspect for a bob or two, or failing that, a round of drinks. Such ancient arts are imbibed with our mother's milk, so it is with grudging admiration that the tale of Max the Swiss is told.
The is the charming old gent who has been emptying wallets all over Europe. His tales of stolen cars full of kiddies' Christmas presents have melted even hardened hearts. Apparently stranded by the side of the road, he has been given lifts, meals and enough cash to send him happily on his way. He promises a cheque in the post. Yes well.
A couple of his soft touches spotted him on a bus and called the police. This is where the intrinsic beauty of the scheme is revealed in all its perfect glory. Max can not be had. He has broken no law, because everyone he took money from had to force it on him. He never asks, the poor saps just take pity on him and practically beg him to let them fill his pockets. The man is a genius, a grand master of the noble art of getting owt for nowt. I stand in awe.
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