New York commuters are hard to stop. But one morning in 1974, a high-wire artist dancing between the twin towers halted them in their tracks. There was no publicity, no press but there Philippe Petit was. Poetry without a safety net.

Three decades on, as David Blaine imitated a sloth in Central Park, the audience's excitement rivalled that of a sloth as well. While cameras clicked, commuters kept on walking.

Blaine is a bore because his feats of endurance don't fit our fantasies. He's too much of a media manipulator. Whoever dreamt in the playground about hanging motionless in a box over the Thames? When Blaine suspended himself in a block of ice in Times Square, I wasn't awed. I just started worrying about global warming.

Then there's his meticulous - and ridiculous - stage management. Even at 180 degrees, his sunglasses remained firmly intact, his black outfit unstained by sweat. Come on, let's see you making an effort.

We all want the harebrained schemes that we think up in the pub brought to life. Go over Niagara Falls in a barrel, row the Channel in a bathtub or dance across a wire and we're behind you all the way. Replace the magic with media savvy and you're on your own.

It might have been more interesting if pools of blood had actually oozed from Blaine's eyes. But he had medics waiting in the wings. Real adventurers don't consider check-ups. We dream about freezing Shackleton-style or disappearing like Amelia Earhart. Stopping every hour to relieve ourselves? That's for reality.

Admittedly, modern daredevils face the Diana Ross dilemma. There ain't no mountain high enough... that Ranulph Fiennes hasn't climbed first. So three cheers then for Fusionman. While a right-way-up Blaine basks in the media spotlight, Yves Rossy is vainly trying to cross the Channel on a pair of wings and a jet engine. Serious pilot by profession, winged hero by persuasion. There may be no more mountains, but this is what adventure is made of.

Rossy's failure to take off shows us that real magic must involve patience and unpredictability. He is at present twiddling his thumbs and waiting, like many a BA flight before him, for the right weather conditions.

Can you imagine Blaine leaving things to the elements? Even his Dive of Death was timed as the finale to a two-hour primetime special. This somewhat killed the suspense. What self-respecting producer would let him die while children eat their TV dinners?

A near-miss might have been more memorable though. Thirty years on, the wire-dancing Petit has inspired the hit film Man on Wire. Blaine won't even make it straight to video.

Times Recommends

• The ghost of Robin Cook haunts Chilcot’s feast
• The truth shouldn’t need oaths
• Violence: let’s separate the men from the boys