Hard left ahead! Phew, thank God I managed to avoid it, or I'd have kicked the bucket, bought the farm and snuffed it twice over; my ego might not have survived. But enough reminiscing, much more important matters are at hand: I have this undescribable feeling, but I'm going to describe it as feeling like Leonardo DeCaprio. Don't ask me why. Apart from that, I feel uneasy, so I try and pretend that this is because I have a big throbbing triangle lodged up my nose as I might, there's something all too familiar about it, like I've been here before.

Hey, wait a second. Why is the road imaginary? And why paint it yellow? Surely there are enough roads already, without people going around imagining and painting new ones.

There's an interesting story behind that, you know. I had a mate called Pete, right, and everyone loved him. Why? Because he was a road, that's why. I mean, everyone loves roads, obviously, but Pete was special. He had charisma.

One day, my mate Pete had an idea. We had been talking about how cool life was, and some guy had come along on his motorcycle. He stopped off for a cup of tea, as people often did; Pete was a popular guy. Anyway, this guy joined in the conversation, and the subject came around to suspense.

Ever been in one of those tense or cool moments, where all that seems to be missing is some ominous? I bet you have. Well, my mate Pete, he suggested to this guy that maybe what we need is a little instrumentalisation.

And so came the idea:

First, we would need to kidnap Santa. To carry out our plan, we needed to know how he gets around the world so damn fast. Without that ability, the plan would take the rest of our natural lives to execute.

Me and the other guy (let's call him Fatface the Indestructable, for simplicity's sake) asked Pete what to do if Santa wouldn't tell us.

"Threaten him with violence," explained Pete, sagely.

"Of course!" Fatface the Indestructable gasped in awe. Pete had this all worked out.

Then, he told us, we would have to declare war on Yamaha™. This wouldn't be easy, obviously, but with the ability to move as fast as Shaquille O'Neill on cocaine, combined with Pete's general awesomeness, it would be at least possible. Once we had taken over Yamaha™, we would recall every keyboard and piano, claiming that they had all died by terrorism. Then his plan would come to fruition - or so he insisted, and when Pete insists something, you don't just get up and walk away.

When he explained what he had been building up to, I couldn't help but give out an involuntary gasp, and I didn't even have any gasp left.

"We stick minature piano keys to everything!?"

It was genius. I mean, wow. Think about it. There you are, having a gunfight with some pædophiles, and you get hit. You need an adrenaline rush, but the sound of the guns just isn't enough. You need some Beethoven. So what do you do? I'll tell you what: you grab a flower and a passing elephant, slamming them together with magic, and you play like it's 1799.

I've said nothing of the benefits, of course. Never again shall a child be unable to learn Piano because they're too poor to buy one. The piano will be all around them! Pianists everywhere will rejoice, and everyone's life will become pretty cool, too. War will give up, and angels shall fly from my armpits.

Then it hit me. Ouch. I've crashed into a tree, haven't I?

As I came to my senses, and realisation seeped through my armpits, I thought back; when could I have crashed into the tree? Could I have scraped the left on the way in? That would certainly make sense. But no, I thought, as the realisation pooled around my ankles. There's something altogether more sinister about this.

Why is my finger in my eye? I pull my finger away, and my eye falls out. That's going to hurt in the morning.

I get out of my car and examine it. After a while, I continue examining it. Finally I get bored, and walk away, towards the road.

Wait, is my car following me? Is this normal car behavior?

I stand on the side of the road, and try hitch-hiking. I stick my thumb out at a truck, which stops. I go over to thank the driver, but there isn't one! There's just a big panda, sitting in the driver's seat, laughing at me.

"Say NO to council taxes," it says, and then it explodes.

There's a moral to this story, kids, but it got away, so you can have these four instead: