Prison Break (without the tattoos or the vaguely masked homoerotics)

Racing along the motorway back to Brisbane I had a feeling in my stomach reminiscent of the time that I stole a newspaper from a garage forecourt and Helen's mum had seen me, slight awkwardness of what was about to happen with a hint of, 'Well, whatcha gonna doaboudit?'.

This time however, I was to only be an accomplice in the tea-leafing and it wouldn't be Wednesday’s Guardian that I'd be stealing but a real, in nearly every sense of the word, person. Emma Louise Dagley to be precise.

Screeching up to the shop like a baby with a bayonet, we realised we had no rope or dynamite between us (having used it all making lunch), and, when all was said and done, not a gnat's cock of a real plan.

Ever the hero, I stepped up to go and grasp Emma and her stuff from the shop. This was essentially because I feared for the safety of the population of the surrounding area if Helen or Mary had been the ones going in Rambo style.

Gingerly stepping out of the car, I imagined that I was moving in black and white and slow motion, and I kept saying 'Megatron must be stopped, no matter the cost...'

My mantra only succeeded in me walking into the shop singing in my head 'You´ve got the touch! You've got the POOOOOOW-EEEEEEEEEEEERRRRR!' at the top of my mind-lungs and being totally ill-prepared for what was about to happen.

Luckily, my own stupidity allowed me to bumble through the next five minutes of Emma running away from her employers and we all joyously jumped into the car - I tell you, we were glad it wasn't a Yaris the amount of stuff Emma had, cor - and the sheer excitement of having everyone together and ready to go and have fun for the first time (for Emma at least) in six months was overwhelming.

For about three and a half minutes.

The Dagley trio then went back to business as usual, and much of the drive home was spent at either top of the range shouting or complete silence.

I used all of my Finnegan skill to disarm the situation by keeping absolutely silent. I did fart once to try and break the deadlock but I reneged on my own bravery and blamed it on Emma in the end.

But, after all was said and done ('You never walk, you never run - YOU'RE A WINNER!'), Emma was free, I was four, and we were on the road to Noosa.


A quick aside, all of this Transformers soundtrack talk has forced me to remember that I sat through a two minute teaser trailer for the next 'Transformers' (those are quotation marks of contempt by the way) 'movie' the other day. 

I solemnly swear, with my hand on my heart and my heart in my lap, that when I get the money I will find and personally kill Michael Bay with my own hands. 

I will rip off his stupid little CGI head and shit down his neck, and what´s more I'll film it, going around and around and around in a two-shot like he does in every fucking film he´s ever made. Cunt.