Thursday, June 15, 2006
The day Dan met his match
I don't know why I'd turned to a life of crime, but apparently I had. My target was TV magician and all-round pest, Paul Daniels.
It seemed that Paul Daniels was incredibly wealthy, as he'd had the vision to invest his riches from smug TV antics in Macadamia nuts (part of my dream was a voice-over which sounded like Galadriel from Lord Of The Rings, explaining that growth in Macadamia nuts was consistently healthy and was unaffected by fluctuations in the dollar, wars or similar tomfoolery.)
So, I broke into Paul Daniels's big house (which, if I'd had to guess, I would have said was somewhere in Berkshire), captured the irritating bastard and set myself to the task of extracting his bank account number from him.
Picture the scene: Paul Daniels's living room, dark despite the midday sun because the curtains are drawn. Dan is twisting his captive's arm behind his back. Paul Daniels, who, it turns out, is also an adept escapologist, puts up with this amateurish nonsense for about five minutes, then calmly untwists his arm, leaving Dan looking like a bit of a prat.
"I'm going to get this information out of you," I inform Paul Daniels.
"Sure, but it'll probably take you about two days," he replies nonchalantly.
Leaving the politically-retrograde magician soundly tied up in his chair, I flick on the light switch to get a better view of what I'm doing. Turning back, Paul Daniels's seat is empty: even the ropes have gone.
This is getting beyond a joke.
"I know you're still in here, Paul Daniels," I announce to the empty room, keeping myself in front of the door; "Come out, or it will go very badly for you."
There is the sound of a car engine starting outside.
Twitching aside the curtain, I am treated to the sight of Paul Daniels pulling out of his driveway unhurriedly. Furthermore, he is driving a Range Rover, which is a very popular status symbol for well-off twats.
I can't help but feel a little foolish; he'd even taken the time to put on his seatbelt.
It seemed that Paul Daniels was incredibly wealthy, as he'd had the vision to invest his riches from smug TV antics in Macadamia nuts (part of my dream was a voice-over which sounded like Galadriel from Lord Of The Rings, explaining that growth in Macadamia nuts was consistently healthy and was unaffected by fluctuations in the dollar, wars or similar tomfoolery.)
So, I broke into Paul Daniels's big house (which, if I'd had to guess, I would have said was somewhere in Berkshire), captured the irritating bastard and set myself to the task of extracting his bank account number from him.
Picture the scene: Paul Daniels's living room, dark despite the midday sun because the curtains are drawn. Dan is twisting his captive's arm behind his back. Paul Daniels, who, it turns out, is also an adept escapologist, puts up with this amateurish nonsense for about five minutes, then calmly untwists his arm, leaving Dan looking like a bit of a prat.
"I'm going to get this information out of you," I inform Paul Daniels.
"Sure, but it'll probably take you about two days," he replies nonchalantly.
Leaving the politically-retrograde magician soundly tied up in his chair, I flick on the light switch to get a better view of what I'm doing. Turning back, Paul Daniels's seat is empty: even the ropes have gone.
This is getting beyond a joke.
"I know you're still in here, Paul Daniels," I announce to the empty room, keeping myself in front of the door; "Come out, or it will go very badly for you."
There is the sound of a car engine starting outside.
Twitching aside the curtain, I am treated to the sight of Paul Daniels pulling out of his driveway unhurriedly. Furthermore, he is driving a Range Rover, which is a very popular status symbol for well-off twats.
I can't help but feel a little foolish; he'd even taken the time to put on his seatbelt.
