I’m not Jack Bauer. Or Danny Wallace.

Danny Wallace, in his latest phoned-in offering in Shortlist Magazine, recounted how he twice foiled shoplifters in Boots on Regent Street. He’s nuts, man. Why place yourself in harm’s way like that? Was he getting paid for it? Did he stand to gain anything from this act of altruistic heroism? Did he bollocks. I suppose, knowing he has a weekly column in one of the less shit freeby papers to fill, he’s got to put himself in these positions, but I still think he was foolish. I’d rather Boots lost a thousand pounds worth of shower gels than risk getting my face punched in, or my indoor supers scuffed. But hey, this says a lot about me, and a lot about Danny Wallace, I suppose.

A couple of Christmases ago, I was shopping for presents in Boots, Lancaster. I had intended to get my girlfriend some perfume, the DKNY red delicious, but they only had the green. Or vice versa, I forget the details (Danny Wallace wouldn’t have, and that’s why he’s writing for Shortlist, and I’m writing for, well, no one). So instead I decided to buy myself some haribo star mix and a tracker bar. I needed sustenance if I was going to make it out of Boots at Christmas time. Sustenance and brain food.

Trying to find my way out of the throng of mentalists that made up the clientele, I bumped in to a guy I know, who used to drink in the Wetherspoons I worked at. He was a little bald Manc, as dodgy as any stereotype I wish to throw at him, and under his arms he had loads of gift boxes.

“Alright mate? He said. “Doing some last minute Christmas shopping?” He must have noticed the tracker bar in my hand I suppose.

I didn’t answer straight away. I had a mouth full of nuts and oats, and this was one person I didn’t want to shower in them. Though a muesli face pack is an excellent way to exfoliate, or so I’m told. But now, just as it wasn’t back then, isn’t the time to get in to a discussion about that. I rapidly finished my mouthful of Tracker, and replied, “Yeah.”

“Well,” said the dodgy Manc, “Meet me in Ruxtons (a rough pub in town named, appropriately enough, after a famous Lancaster murderer) in quarter of an hour, you can buy some of these off me.” And with that he slipped the gift boxes under his jacket and disappeared in to the crowds.

Blimey, I thought. How rude. Shall I tell a staff member? Shall I call a police officer? Or maybe perform a citizen’s arrest? I did none of those things. I was fairly stressed as it was, and I could do without having to take an hour or two out of my day to deal with the bureaucracy that surrounds being a hero. So I let him go his way, and I went mine, which was to Accessorize, to get the missus a hairband, or bangle, or cheap ring that turned her finger green.

I suppose a good pay off would have been if I’d gone to meet him at Ruxton’s and bought the DKNY gift set I was looking for. But I didn’t. And I’m not going to lie, because it would also have been a criminal offense. And as well as not be bothered with having to deal with the bureaucracy of heroism, the same stands for villainy. I’m content, you know, just being anonymous, and occasionally straddling that oh so thin line between good and bad. Like Ghost Rider, but with more skin and fewer flames.

Which reminds me. A few months later whilst walking home from the pub with a kebab and bottle of 7 Up, I stumbled across a bin some idiots had set on fire. The damage had been done, and just a few smouldering embers were left. But these, having been a member of my school’s Fire Prevention Youth Quiz Team, could still be dangerous. I can’t abide danger. So I emptied my 7 Up over the remnants of the fiery disaster, and stamped out the rest. No one was there to see my act of derring do, and until today I’d not told anyone about it. I didn’t let it affect my life, and I didn’t want the limelight. As I say, I’m happy with anonymity.

That’s a real hero, Danny Wallace.