Bunny meets Bourne

It's not the first beer that's the problem. More often than not its the 12th or the 13th that causes you to become unruly with the sure knowledge you can conquer the world. For me, it's the second glass. I've never been good with drink. At school when my pals were necking beer like it was milk, I was being careful on Babycham's.

I'm not sure at what point I proposed to the more and more attractive bar lady, or when I offered to give her boyfriend a facial rearrangement, but I do remember seeing the flashing blue lights as the boys in blue arrived. Thankfully, aided by draft Moretti, I turned into Matthew Bourne as I skipped down the bar and jumped on to the stairs bannister before nimbly alighting to the rooftop.

Here, atop a view fit for Princes, I thought of just how lovely a blip I could have taken if only they hadn't confiscated my precious iPhone. Still, I had little time for remorse as I heard the sound of cop chunter and I turned and bounded across rooftops like Red Rum cleared the fences at Aintree.

All was going well until I heard the helicopter and there, in the cockpit, was my nemesis, the man not called Joe....

I needed help. I needed Jack Lloyd & Sleepyhead!


to be continued...

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