Not all student nights out end this way. There’s always a story to tell the next day, but it’s not every morning you wake up to find it all described in wavering detail across the global press, from the BBC all the way over to The Los Angeles Times.

My name is James Fletcher and I’m a postgrad student in the department of Aeronautics. I recently started here and not long ago after a small reunion of friends from Queen Mary uni, a couple of us headed from the West End over towards Kensington to check out the union bar at Imperial. We were never to arrive that evening because on the way a prominent but unfortunate American author was holding a party for his UK book launch of his most recent novel. The event was lit up like a neon sign just asking to be gatecrashed. We jumped out the cab and headed towards the main entrance, ignoring how inapt our attire was for the event. The cocktails we’d already consumed in the Paddington Hilton had already taken care of any feelings of hesitation we may have otherwise had. At the door, a bit of wavy-handed rhetoric was enough for the clipboard staff to appease us and after pretending we were with Puffin Publishing and shouting some greetings of false recognition to a group nearby, we were in.

The champagne came quicker than we could drink it, accompanied by the Hors d’œuvres, but it wasn’t long before the chit chat with guests became a little futile. The people there were by no means boring, those actually invited were the crème de la crème in the world of literature, but having to keep up lie after lie of who we were and what we were doing was becoming progressively more inane. As the speeches continued and our states deteriorated we began to blow our own cover to an increasing crowd of people in there. The whole time, as I realised it wasn’t long before we would soon leave (of our own accord or not), I increasingly felt the urge to do something amusing. The author, Jonathan Franzen had already suffered while on tour in London. Problems from the tube strikes certainly compounded the issues he’d had with the UK publishers who had printed the wrong version of his book. Surely his visit couldn’t get any worse. Perhaps this thought may have been crossing his mind, as we were at the bar tearing a blank page from a copy of his new book ‘Freedom’ in preparation for the prank. I had thought several times from across the room how much I admired the frames he wore; so much so that I had almost wished I wore glasses myself. We scribbled a ransom note simply stating “$100,000 and your glasses are yours again” with my email address at the bottom. At first I attempted to see if I could swipe them from behind the curtain where he stood but there were no gaps at all. The direct approach was the only option.

I strode quickly towards his where he stood with a group of his colleagues and shouted “We’re with Channel 4! Channel 4!”

After making arrangements with my accomplice for the ransom note to be delivered to him, I strode quickly towards his where he stood with a group of his colleagues and shouted “We’re with Channel 4! Channel 4!”. This was a subterfuge that would bide me at least 2 seconds, enough perhaps to stop his initial reactions from arresting my attempts of capturing his glasses, athough I’m not totally sure what this meant exactly. The point is it seemed to work. Within seconds I was out the back entrance scaling a five foot fence and running through Hyde Park.

I called my friend whilst still making my escape, arranging a rendezvous without actually knowing what the hell we were gonna do next. Wait for a response? Go and give the glasses back? It was only a prank after all, but only minutes later I began to realise my fate was no longer totally in my own hands. I twigged how many of his security team were in hot pursuit of me and these glasses. They seemed to appear in the park in all directions out of nowhere as though spawned from the dark, each the same disdainful mass of intent jogging in good pace after me. I have to admit I quickly began to feel The Fear. My merry state of inconsiderate mirth quickly dissipated, replaced only with acute apprehension and an increasing desperation to escape. I ran in any direction I could, knowing I could easily outsprint and outpace these men if only I could find a clear enough route out. I headed quickly towards this route, jumping another fence, only to find I had trapped myself between them and the Serpentine lake. I negotiated my way through sharp hedges and trees trying to get far enough along the bank so that I could continue my way out the park. Disturbing wildlife as I trudged my way through, their screeching noises gave away my position and voices from outside the fence began to close in on me. I ran towards the lake trying to separate my blackberry to save it from being destroyed in the water, as I had at this point decided I would swim to safety. Yes, there was no way at all that this was a bad idea.

Without any thought I dashed quickly into the water, foot deep, knee deep and then finally almost up to my shoulders

Without any thought I dashed quickly into the water, foot deep, knee deep and then finally almost up to my shoulders. The distance to the other side began to look further away with every step I moved. My shoes began to sink into the sludge at the bottom and I held onto a branch that protruded from a tree on the bank and waited for some time, contemplating how all this mess might just all sort itself out if I waited long enough. As I watched my copy of Freedom float away up the river, I envied it; whilst hearing the voices shouting to me, assuring me that I’d be caught and to give myself up. Stubbornly I decided it couldn’t get any worse and held my hostage safe above the water planning how I might get away. The shouting diminished, the heavy footsteps faded to distant background noise and I decided they might have thought I had made it to the other side. I slowly crept up the bank, cutting myself on thorns and crawling through whatever gaps I could to minimise the noise of my exit. As I got closer to the fence I heard a man shout “he’s in here!” Using their loud noises of pursuit to drown out the sound my own dash back down to the bank I ran quickly out of sight and hid on the ground, flat. A game of chess where the fugitive had just lost all his pieces at once. I lay as still as possible, hoping that I could have been mistaken for more innocent animals that lived in the wooded area and they may again look elsewhere. No, police had arrived now with torches. They were not close by though. After some time I began to realise I could have another attempt to make my way out when I heard the sounds of helicopter blades from the distance getting closer. This wasn’t for me though because they don’t send helicopters out for people that take somebody’s glasses, not even for a celebrity… Do they? I lay even stiller as it dawned on me; I knew my escape was impossible now. The chopper was for me and the sound of the blades was as persistent as its intent to help in my inevitable arrest. Surely they knew this was just a practical joke. How far had this gone? More importantly, when were the police dogs going to arrive and what were they going to do? I clasped the glasses in my hand: my only bargaining chip, and tried to make my way back to the river where they might not track me.

Torch lights swung past me as I hid as low down as I could and officers of the law got closer

Torch lights swung past me as I hid as low down as I could and officers of the law got closer, at one stage walking straight past me in the darkness of the bushes. I knew the game was nearly up, but I have always learnt never to give up, always fight till the last man; so I stayed put, still as I could be. It took only five more minutes though and my face reflected the beam of light from police constable Garty’s torch. I sighed with acceptance and maybe a little relief, reluctantly getting to my feet and offering my hand to congratulate the officer on his work, this denied I offered my other hand for the cuffs. The event organiser then offered his opinion of me and I was put in the back of a van after handing over the glasses.

Still drunk and jovial in character, I persuaded the Met to polish them up and for the arresting officer to personally hand the author his glasses back, to at least reflect how good our law enforcement is over here, even if each part of his visit in London had been a travesty. The police began to see the humour of it, so it appears did Franzen too. It wasn’t long before I was released out of custody from Belgravia Station without any further action, perhaps in the spirit of the title of his book: he had granted me just that. I arrived back home, one pair of shoes and one blackberry less, and used the internet to contact my friends only to relive the whole experience as I watched the media frenzy begin to unfold online.