On Disneyland

"Welcome to Disneyland Paris", said the sign on the gate at Europe's premier theme park attraction. "Number of days since last fatal accident: 100"

"One hundred?" says Scaryduckling, clearly impressed at their tolerably low body count, "Wow."

"You do realise that number's in binary", I say helpfully.

"Oh. What's that then?"

"Fou..."

There is a distant sound of metal on metal on human flesh and bone, followed by a rising crescendo of screams from the "Meet Mickey" corral.

"Zut alors," says the man at the turnstile, "I told zem ze combine 'arvester death slide was a bad idea."

There is a clunk as the sign above the gate changes, and the rebellious turnstile operator holds his beret to his chest. "We 'aven't 'ad a Donald Duck for a fortnight. Ze costume's still at ze dry cleaners. Also: Good Moaning."

"Welcome to Disneyland Paris", reads the jauntily-painted sign in a number of European languages, "Number of days since last fatal accident: 000."

We shrug, push our way through the turnstiles, watch the well-drilled teams hose down the mangled machinery before making our way to the Tower of Certain Death and Rotating Knives.

And that's what I did on my holiday.

Note to Disney corporate lawyers: The above account of my trip to your fine, fine establishment may contain traces of lie