Do you know where your kids are?

Somebody was having a party in the karaoke bar under my flat, which seems (as always) to proceed in complete silence until 3am, and then to turn on pounding, pounding techno as loud as they possibly can.

I'd sparked out completely (in bed and unconscious by 11) so obviously I was in need of sleep, not thudding bass. My brain began to think of jokes for Saturday, and what kept going round in my head were clownish attempts to blow up aircraft: last year it was exploding underpants, before that it was that Mr Reid and his exploding shoes? What could be next? Hijacking a plane with one of those flowers that squirts water in your face when you sniff it? A high velocity whoopee cushion? Buckets of poisonous custard that your accomplice tips inside your trousers?

I suppose the predictable reaction of the security services will be to arrest anyone who arrives at the airport in any car whose wheels fall off while glitter sprays out of the exhaust pipe, or unfortunate people with big grins and red noses. Fortunate that it didn't happen a day before, otherwise Santa Claus might have been profiled.