Chapter 39

Charge Sheet 

‘I fought the Law.. and the Law won’ - sometimes

‘Well Good Morning, Judge.  How are you today?’

Ever had any of those moments?  You’ve done something you know you really shouldn’t have and now you’re panicking in case it gets found out.  It’s going round and round in your head, it keeps you awake at night, and the next few days are spent waiting for your collar to be felt.

Mum:  ‘Peter, I was talking to Aunty Sheila this afternoon and she mentioned she’d seen you….’

Dad:  ‘Peter, let’s go into the other room for a minute, I want to talk to you about something….’

Teacher:  ‘I’d like the person responsible to own up now……’

Jackie:  ‘I’m telling Mum…..’

Headmaster:  ‘Can the following boys stay behind after assembly…..’

Swim Coach:  ‘It’s come to my attention that some senior members of the squad…..’

Munich Police Dept:  ‘Pleeze explain vot you are doing on zis train….’

Greek border guard:  ‘Is this bag yours…..?’

Sue:  ‘I think that camera just flashed you…’

I’d like to claim that I’m generally a law-abiding type: rarely stepping over the mark, rarely doing anything to threaten my fellow citizens, and rarely breaking my own self-imposed guidelines on what I consider to be acceptable social behaviour.  Not a total goody-goody but light years away from being on a ‘wanted list’.

In the unlikely situation that I ever stand for public office, or am catapulted into the celebrity limelight, I don’t think the media or anyone else ‘digging for dirt’ would find too much to get excited about.  However just on the off-chance that I might suddenly find myself in the spotlight, I think it makes sense to be upfront and get things out there and into the public domain, putting my version of events first before some journo’ or social-media troll tries to shame me with a detrimental, warped and inaccurate expose.

So it’s time for another delve into the Time Machine archives, searching for ‘crimes’.  And it’s my opportunity to put the record straight, argue any defence, or just finally ‘confess’ and place myself at the mercy of the reader.

The Charge Sheet isn’t exhaustive but it’s a fair representation of what I’ve been up to, and whilst there’s no statute of limitations in the UK, I’m confidently hoping that I’m not opening a can of prosecuting worms.

Vandalism #1

Surely no-one would seek punishment on a five-year old who, in the dodgy company of friend Paul Farmer, decided that throwing stones as high in the air as they could from my back garden launch-pad was a fun pastime but had also failed to consider that this might result in an uncontrolled re-entry: in this case straight through the roof of a neighbour Wally Smith’s greenhouse.  The noise of shattering glass must have been heard up and down the street.

‘We’re doomed!’ we squeaked to each other, just waiting for backdoors to fly open and our fate be sealed.  There was nowhere we could rapidly hide so quickly pretended to be occupied in some other garden game.  After a couple of anxious minutes, Retribution still hadn’t arrived so we were then faced with another dilemma: confess or keep quiet.  I needed time to think; after a suitable period of 55 years to consider my options I’ve now chosen the confessional route.  As far as I know Paul has remained tight-lipped.

Vandalism #2

We didn’t have gang warfare where I grew up; basically the kids in Bramcote weren’t hard enough to mix it with the lads from Stabbo’ or Beeston so we rarely strayed from our comfortable rising-middle-class environs.  There was a gang of sorts; we’d play in the road, venture to the park for a kick around or hang around outside the post-office if we’d got pocket money to spend on chews or bubble-gum cards.  (I could never get the hang of blowing bubbles).  If the weather was decent, the bikes might come out and we’d unknowingly replicate a junior Hells Angels Chapter, terrorising the old ladies of the neighbourhood by racing along the pavements en route to the local bike-scrambling venue of Snakey Woods, a bit of scrub that bordered part of the growing housing estate.  Scrambling was regularly on Grandstand at the time so we’d hurl our Raleigh bikes along the paths, up and down the slopes and between the trees, pretending to be mud-splattered Vic Eastwood or Dave Bickers racing to a Murray Walker commentary.

If we weren't scramblers we’d be emulating the Q-Bikes, a Beano comic-strip gang of junior investigative vigilantes who first spotted and then dealt with, an assortment of shady villains.  On one trip we ventured the couple of miles to Bramcote Park and, having exhausted the limited tree-climbing opportunities, (there were loads of trees but all were too big and mature) we found ourselves by the dilapidated old mansion that was discreetly located behind a rank of trees.  Known as the Hills House it had belonged to some local magnate during the Thirties before being used by the military during the War and then subsequently abandoned as the family fell on hard times.  It was in the process of being demolished; a token picket fence encircled what remained of the building, its exposed  rafters and floorboards, broken windows, empty door frames and piles of bricks and rubble proving too much of a temptation for exploration.  Clearly the words ‘trespassers’ or ‘prosecuted’ weren’t much of a deterrent to ten-year-olds seeking entertainment and the bikes were easily hoiked over the fence.

I can’t recall how long we were there, balancing along the rafters or aiding the demolition process with a few well-aimed stone throws. I do remember the sudden alarm when a truck trundled along the narrow park road and pulled up onto the old driveway by the house.

‘Oi - what you lot doing!  Get down ‘ere yer little buggers!’

‘Uh Oh!  Leg it!’

It had to be an escape over the fence at the back.  Four panic-stricken lads, hearts racing, chucked their bikes over and followed in a rush, ignoring the risk of splinters or snagging shorts.  Looking back, we could see there were at least two men who were out their cab, running after us, shouting threatening abuse.  Blimey!  They were even lobbing stones at us!  Worse, our direct route out the park was blocked by their vehicle.

‘Go for the far entrance!’

We headed for what we thought was sanctuary, a gap in the perimeter that led out onto the A6007, Coventry Lane, pedalling like fury across the grass and thankful for our off-road scrambling skills.  A minute or so later we could catch our breath and risk a look back.  Our pursuers were back in their truck, which was now slowly heading towards the gate by the cricket pavilion, seemingly having lost interest.

Which way home?  A left turn ran the risk of meeting them head-on but a right turn was a long way round on a busy road.  We headed right; I’d only ever been on this road previously in the car and it felt like miles round a big loop to safety.  We scooted along with the odd glance backwards, past the local tourism claim to fame, the Hemlock Stone, a large sandstone rock that I learnt several years later features as a day-trip attraction in DH Lawrence’s ‘Sons and Lovers’.

Someone made an inspirational suggestion.

‘Turn right into the lane for Moor Farm, past the turkey field, and then we can get through the gate and out onto Moor Lane.’

It was only 1/4 mile to this escape lane option but suddenly, horrifyingly, looming behind us was the truck and one of the men, his head out of the window, was shouting something.  We didn’t wait to find out what but swung off the road and up the farm drive.

‘I’m reporting you to the police!’ were the last words we heard, along with what sounded like laughter as the truck continued straight on. The farmer wasn’t around to nab us and, skirting the small turkey field and the edge of the farmyard, we made it out onto Moor Lane; familiar territory. 

‘Phew!  Let’s go home!’  Our adrenaline levels were finally beginning to drop.

‘They won’t report us will they?’  And then more rationally, ‘They don’t know who we are.’

But a youngster’s brain doesn’t work like that.  Maybe the police can track us.

I was on edge over tea, didn’t sleep well, and was only reassured at school on Monday when the others’ appearance revealed they hadn’t been arrested and the Head hadn’t asked to see me.  Clearly the police investigation had reached a dead-end and the case mothballed.

These days the site would have been protected by CCTV.  I revisited the place a month ago on a nostalgic walk around the park.  Only a few low walls and a faded information board remain of the once proud house.

The Hemlock Stone is an outcrop of New Red Sandstone, deposited more than 200 million years ago in the Triassic Period. Approximately 28 feet (8.5 m) high, it is formed of a layer of Nottingham Castle Sandstone overlying a layer of Lenton Sandstone.

‘They came to the Hemlock Stone at dinner-time.  Its field was crowded with folk from Nottingham and Ilkeston. They had expected a venerable and dignified monument. They found a little, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like a decayed mushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. Leonard and Dick immediately proceeded to carve their initials, "L.W." and "R.P.", in the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted, because he had read in the newspaper satirical remarks about initial-carvers, who could find no other road to immortality.  Then all the lads climbed to the top of the rock to look around.’

DH Lawrence’s ‘Sons and Lovers’.

Vandalism #3

Fifty or so yards from home, at the point where Balmoral Drive sweeps round the bend and becomes Arundel Drive, it’s also intersected by the turning up a slight rise into Ranmore Close.  Around the end of the Sixties, this junction became the lucky recipient of a pair of new lampposts, surprising us one afternoon as we trudged home from the bus stop.  In the days before plastic cones and multi-coloured tape, the only warning to prevent anyone walking on the newly laid foundation at the base of the lampposts was a handwritten cardboard sign bearing the legend: ‘Wet cement’.  Clearly this sign was not much use to the local dogs and cats and we were amused to see that a trail of paw prints already decorated the smooth surface.

Mike Dickens, a year older and from a few houses further up the road, spotted an opportunity for posterity.

‘Let’s mark our initials in it. Find a twig or stick.’

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Five minutes later a ‘PS’ motif was setting hard, just to the right of the post.

‘Hey!  You’ve done yours wrong!’ I pointed out.  ‘You’ve done ‘D M.’  That’s backwards.’

‘I know - that way they won’t guess it’s me’

‘Ah…’

It quickly dawned on me that maybe I shouldn’t have done it.  What if the people who lived in this bit of road had seen the perpetuators?  They probably knew Mum and Dad and might put two and two together and figure out the identity of ‘PS’.  For a week or so I was on tenterhooks.  Twice a day for the next seven or eight years I’d walk past that lamppost and, with increasing bravado, came to the realisation that I’d got away with it.

About ten years ago the ‘PS’ was still visible, but on a recent drive round the old neighbourhood, I was disappointed to see that a ‘next generation’ lamppost had been installed.  They hadn’t even done a good job; the smooth concrete with its paw prints and juvenile graffiti had been superseded by some ugly black tarmac filling.  At least the rest of the pavement slabs were still much as I remembered; you’d get to recognise each crack, or uneven tilt quite intimately when kicking a stone, steering a go-cart or dragging your way to school and back.

Let’s now leave my days as a vandal behind and explore a few other areas of criminality. 

How about vice?

Every July, the county swim squad would head to Coventry to compete in the Midland District Championships.  Spread over a couple of Saturdays, the format was always the same: heats in the morning and finals in the evening, which left the afternoon for recovery and relaxation. This normally meant that a whole bunch of teenagers from all the various county squads would end up milling around in the shopping centre or sitting in a Wimpy (this was before the days of sports nutritionists).  The first few times I raced there, Mum or Dad took me and we killed a few hours during the afternoon at Kenilworth Castle or a park somewhere nearby, but by the time I was sixteen, I was travelling and hanging out with the more senior swimmers.  Most of them were a couple of years older than me and they were the ones who always decided the afternoon agenda.

‘We’re going to a film, Pete.  Come if you want.’

‘Great - what’s on?’

‘No idea, and anyway it doesn’t really matter what it’s called.’  Pete Brailsford had things planned.

‘It’s at that little cinema across the square.  I’ll buy the tickets.  Keep your head down and you should get in okay.’

I quickly figured it out.  Most city centres had a cinema, somewhat shady, promoting in a low-key way, what in those days were called ‘blue movies’ but are now referred to as ‘adult films’.  (Where did the ‘blue’ reference come from?)

‘I’m in!’   Pulse beginning to race.   An X-film...

A few hours later, suitably enlightened, I was drinking a milkshake, eating a hot dog and trying to refocus on the evening races.  Not an easy task after an eye-opening afternoon of soft porn.  Remember there was no internet, or mobile phones images to tempt and tease adolescents in the Seventies.  Any hope of glimpsing the more interesting parts of the female form relied on your mate’s brother’s friend’s back copy of ‘Mayfair’ or the lingerie section of your mum’s Littlewoods catalogue.

We agreed on secrecy but the senior girls, who’d been excluded from the entertainment, weren’t stupid and teased us that they’d tell the coaches.  I can’t remember how I swam in the final but I still recall the growing realisation that, on balance, it might not have been the wisest move.  Brailsford didn’t particularly care if the story came out; he was nearly eighteen anyway and light years ahead when it came to getting beyond the snogging stage (do kids still say snogging?)   He and ‘big’ Janice Mandsworth would frequently get up to no good in a changing cubicle when we were away on training camps or weekend events and away from prying parental eyes.  His background was much more working-class than was normal in the squad, which largely comprised kids from families who could ensure their kids went to decent schools and afford the coaching costs; his dad even had tattoos!  Pete wore a bling medallion, had sideboards, and was into Barry White, Soul and Disco, whilst the most of us would still be trying to feel superior about Pink Floyd and Bowie.

The other members of the guilty party were more concerned.  Surely we couldn’t be prosecuted for being under-age, even if it was an X-film.  But what if the coaches found out?  Definitely a bollocking. What would our parents say, especially if they heard it from someone else?  Definitely an embarrassing talking-to.   More worrying was the possibility that the stuffy, blazer-clad officials who ran the Nottinghamshire ASA would not be impressed and boot us out the squad.  There was precedent for this; just the year before, a couple of male swimmers had been expelled from the England camp at the 1974 Commonwealth Games in New Zealand. The official reason was ‘riotous behaviour late into the night at the training camp’ but we all knew the real reason: as well as hosting a party, they’d shared their room overnight with a couple of kiwi girls.  The story had run in the national press for several days and the guys were given a hard time.  What if the Nottingham Evening Post got hold of our story?  My imagination ran away with scary headlines:

‘County swimmers prefer porn to podium!’

‘Council rates squandered on sex-mad swimmers!’ and so on. 

There was nothing we could do but sit tight and hope no-one that mattered found out.  After a few sleepless nights I ventured a half-truth to Mum, at least setting the scene just in case things later exploded.  As casually as possible I mentioned some of us gone to the cinema during the afternoon and that it had ‘turned out’ to be an X-film and had been ‘a bit sexy.’  I’ve no idea what she thought because I then hastily changed the subject. 

Around the same time, with a select group of similarly cricket-mad friends, I became involved in a brief period of attempted match-fixing.  On our frequent excursions to watch Notts, or occasionally England, at Trent Bridge we developed a sure-fire way to influence the outcome of the game.  We christened our technique ‘boundary-booting,’ developing a simple fool-proof method that avoided detection and can be applied, in the right circumstances, at cricket grounds the world over.  The secret, which I now feel safe to reveal, depended on the tolerance of the ground staff who allowed spectators to walk around the outfield at the start of play, during the lunch or tea intervals, or between innings.  If Notts or England were about to bat we’d circle the boundary and casually-accidentally give the heavy boundary rope frequent nudges and kicks to move it inwards.  Clearly this made a significant difference to the chances of our favourites scoring a boundary.  If the opposition were batting we’d reverse the process and kick the rope outwards.

For several seasons during the mid-seventies our attempts to influence the match results avoided detection by the cricket authorities; this might be connected to the dire competence of our teams at the time.  It was only later in the decade when, blessed with the abilities of Randall, Hadlee and Rice, that Notts actually won anything and someone might have looked closer for an alternative explanation for our change in fortune.

Note - If the diameter of the playing area at Trent Bridge was 100m, the area inside the circular boundary was 7,854 square metres.  Booting the boundary in by 25cm all round gave Notts an 0.5% increased chance of scoring a boundary.  Similarly a kick outwards reduces the chance for the opposition by the same amount.   What hadn’t occurred to us at the time, not having covered geometry properly in our A-Level maths, was that inward-kicking would also reduce the playing area by 78 to 7776 sq m which unfortunately gave the opposition less surface area to defend.  Worse by outward-kicking we were giving our team a bigger disadvantage, asking our 11 players to cover an extra 78 sq m or 7 sq m per player.

Smuggling

A few years later I branched out into smuggling, moving contraband across Eastern European borders despite having been briefly apprehended by West German Security Services as a suspected terrorist only a fortnight earlier.

Masquerading as a small group of inter-rail student travellers, a few of us had taken the train from Freiburg to Munich; Robbo was with Naomi and I and we’d managed to find seats in a carriage for the relatively short trip, our other friends deciding to travel on another route and meet us later. The three of disembarked onto the platform in Munich to find we weren’t alone.  Almost without us realising we’d been isolated from the other passengers and surrounded by half a dozen serious looking men and women, dressed in rather sombre coats or jackets.  We didn’t have much opportunity to wonder about what it was all about before we were halted and challenged in German, completely clueless as to what we were being asked.

‘We’re English,’ we offered; the universal excuse for everything.

 More incomprehensible German, but this time delivered with less certainty.

‘Englisch, Inglander, student, holiday….’  We shrugged and tried smiling.

Three of them conferred.  ‘Pazzports pleeze’

Other people wandering along the platform gave the unusual gathering a curious glance as we dug our documents out of our waist belts and handed them over.  The mood eased although one of the women continued to flick through a small folder holding what seemed like dozens of identikit photos.

Moments later they reached a decision.

‘Sorry.  You are not zee couple we have been looking for.  We are ze security polize and received a tip-off that two men and a woman with backpacks were on the Freiburg train.  You may go.’

And as quickly as that it was over.  I think we asked them for a lift to the campsite... We didn't get one!  (We'd probably be suing them for damage to our mental health and emotional well-being nowadays).  Recovering our breath we wandered off to find a bus to the campsite with story to tell our friends.  Presumably the security police resumed their search for the real Baader-Meinhof couple who, no doubt, had slipped away unchallenged.

Confident now that we weren’t on Interpol’s wanted list, we breezed across the borders and miserable customs officers of Europe for the next fortnight with barely a thought as the stamps accumulated in our passports.  A final train leg saw Na and I, plus Jackie and Sally Smith, heading from Belgrade to Athens where we’d catch the plane to Egypt to stay with Dad in Cairo.  The train was overflowing, virtually all the compartments were taken and it was a long, slow, rattly, hot journey stuck in the corridor trying to get some air from the small sliding windows.  A Greek family who occupied the adjacent compartment took pity on us and, using gestures, smiles and a smattering of English, shared some of their snacks with us.  They were returning from staying in Germany after a visit with their migrant worker father and had filled half the carriage with their suitcases and bags.  When the train reached the Greek border they pointed at a large shiny new radio-cassette player they had been listening to and indicated they’d like us (me) to hide it in one of our bags to avoid declaring to customs.  Why would anyone agree to that?  Frazzled by the heat, tired from no sleep, grateful for being fed and watered, and obviously not thinking clearly, we agreed and hastily shoved it into Naomi’s green lightweight shoulder bag before stashing it into the overhead rack. 

I believe custom officials must have inbuilt radar for sniffing out contraband and guilty travellers.  This guy, in his quasi-military uniform complete with holstered gun, barked out questions at the Greek family and demanded their papers before turning his attention to the backpackers loitering in the corridor.  His eyes roved over the compartment and uncannily picked out the suspicious-looking green shoulder bag.  The family shrugged innocently, pointing at me and leaving no option other than for me to fetch it down and reveal the contents to the unsmiling officer.  He wasn’t stupid but I stuck to the story, claiming ownership via gestures and, probably not wanting the hassle, he decided to let it go.  He did, however, write the details of the radio-cassette in the back of my passport along with several lines of Greek script, before moving on to find further pickings in the next compartment.

When the train finally set off again, rolling into the increasingly arid Greek landscape we could finally breathe again.  The family interpreted what had been written; apparently I was supposed to show the passport page when leaving the country which was accompanied by them all shaking heads to indicate that this might not be wise.  We all laughed about it, especially when it was realised that the cassette loaded in the player was Greek music rather than British rock.  I was a bit nervous for the week we spent in Salonica and Athens and by the time we arrived at the airport had decided to hide the incriminating page under vaccination certificates, secured by an elastic band.  Let me tell you there is nothing like the feeling of relief when the aircraft’s wheels finally leave the runway and you know you’ve escaped.  What it must be like for a spy escaping a closing net, or people fearing for their lives fleeing an oppressive regime, I just can’t imagine.  A Greek guy on the university swim team who I asked to translate custom officer’s words the following term said that if I hadn’t been in possession of the radio-cassette when leaving the country I was liable for prosecution.  That would have been messy.

Looking back, it’s exactly the sort of thing travellers are advised not to do.  Just suppose it had been stuffed full of drugs.   Maybe it was?

Talking of drugs.  The chapter  ‘University Days’ chronicles my mini-flirtation with a cannabis-laced cottage pie and notes the fact that, as any aroma emanating from our Selly-Oak flat was never sufficient to prompt a bust from the drug-squad, it would suggest I was never really a Mister Big when it came to narcotics.

Highwayman

My real criminal speciality over the decades has been when I’ve behind the wheel; to the vindictive traffic-cops of Europe I’m known as the ‘Mad Max of Bristol’ and have a long-list of traffic violations against my name.  Personally I think I’m being unfairly persecuted.  A glance at the evidence quickly reveals that my driving really isn’t like something out of ‘Fast and Furious.  Apart that is from the one-time I got Dad’s Maxi, Forest scarves flying from rear windows, up to 100mph on the M6 coming back from a win at Bolton in 1978.  Never even tried it since.  And maybe the ‘flying kayak’ on the Severn Bridge in 1982, described in the ‘River Deep Mountain High’ chapter came close to causing a major police incident but otherwise?  Well, here’s the list.

1997 -  Falaise near Caen, France - the old camper van - 57km in a 50km zone.

It was late afternoon, nearing the end of a long, hot drive up through France and aiming for a campsite near the port of Caen.  The boys, aged just three and five, had done well but we’d all had enough and were only an hour away.   We were in a long stream of Friday afternoon traffic heading north on the N158. (I later learnt that this stretch of road was the scene of fierce fighting in 1944 as the panzers of the German Seventh Army fought desperately to secure their retreat, both sides suffering heavy casualties).

‘Wonder what those guys are flashing for?’ we mused about the oncoming traffic as we followed the flow of cars down the steadily descending road into Falaise, a typical Normandy town with a long row of houses and shops off to either side of the highway.

 ‘Oh shit.’ 

We’d sailed right into the welcoming hands of the local gendarme speed trap who were gleefully signalling every other vehicle into a large lay-by.  Being English didn’t help at all as a pair of them checked the tyres and requested documents.  I had to get out and walk over to see the computer display on the picnic table they’d set up.  Sure enough it was 57km.  A fair cop?

‘But I was only going with the flow… and are you sure there was a 50 sign?'

‘600 francs’

‘Ah.  You see it’s our last day in your friendly, beautiful country and we’ve run our currency down to our last few francs.’

‘Then you must follow this police car to the cash machine.’

We were escorted a few kilometres to the nearest bank where one of the new hole-in-the-wall dispensers offered the opportunity to acquire the necessary cash…  Except it was ‘out of order’ thereby giving the gendarme a problem.  He’d already filled in the documents so couldn’t let us off but, equally, the last thing he wanted to deal with on a Friday afternoon was impounding a tourist vehicle until the fine could be paid.  I certainly didn’t want that outcome either so, in my best O-Level French, I suggested an alternative.  Let us drive on to the campsite, cadge some cash from our friends who were also staying there overnight, and then return to the police station to pay the fine.  It was a deal.  An hour later we were parked up at the site looking for Chris and Jo but they were nowhere to be seen and remember, this was before mobile phones could be of use in such a predicament.  Luckily the campsite was full of Brits; it was the annual D-Day celebration and, as in every year since 1947, an army of veterans of the Battle of Normandy had returned for a reunion. Within minutes I’d exchanged some sterling for the necessary francs and we were back in the van heading into town to find the police station.  Not as straightforward as you might think; the weekend celebration had resulted in a multitude of road closures and diversions but eventually we pulled up outside. I handed over the cash and the smiling cop handed me back my documents they’d been ‘looking after’ as collateral.  I felt like suggesting that, as it was the D-Day anniversary and, in recognition of British solidarity and sacrifice, he might like to let me off, but the moment passed.

2001 - Good Friday - Nibley, just outside Yate  - 6 am  - 34mph in a 30 zone

In those days few people were up and about at 6am, certainly not on a Bank Holiday, as I popped into the factory to just finish off a report.  At the Nibley junction about 1/2 mile before the outskirts of Yate the speed drops from 50 to 30.

FLASH  -  Speed Awareness Course - #1.

2005  -  October - heading north on A68 for a day in Edinburgh.  57mph in a 50 zone.

Pulled out on a 60 mph dual carriageway to overtake a lorry, following another car.  Bags of room to get past and back in before the looming 50 mph single lane zone, except the twit in front decided to take his time and slow down, leaving me with no option but to continue at 60 for another 100m to safely get past both vehicles.  I drove past this spot last year; the camera is still there, right at the start of the 50 stretch, perfectly positioned to get anyone who hasn’t decelerated in advance.

FLASH  -  Three points and sixty quid.

2007  -  June - edge of Downend.   37mph in a 30 zone.

Sneaky mobile traffic cops picked me off as I drove back into Downend one evening on my way home from work.  I was already decelerating to 30mph but clearly not early enough.

FLASH - Another three points and another sixty quid.

2017  -  November -  M32 heading into Bristol - 8pm unusually very light traffic - 44mph in a 40.

Overhead camera just as I pulled onto the virtually empty main carriageway and bang into the newly introduced speed zone.

FLASH - Speed Awareness Course - #2.

2019  -  Verdun France  - 58km in a 50 in the van

Didn’t even see it.

FLASH - Sixty euro fine.

2020  -  Bristol - M4 slipway onto M32.  - In the van again -  48 mph in a 40. 

The Smart Motorway was too smart for me.  Could have sworn it was saying ’50’ seconds earlier.

FLASH - Speed Awareness Course - #3.

A regular offender?  Yes.  Unlucky?  Maybe.  Trouble is you just can’t argue.  It’s no good going on about the fact that the traffic was light, it was early in the morning, that you were driving sensibly to the road conditions at the time or whatever.  The camera doesn’t lie and rules are rules.

And the authorities don’t care that you’re usually a law-abiding careful driver, never jumping the lights, never doing stupid overtaking manoeuvres, normally trying to observe the speed limits, and never even had a parking fine. That all counts for nothing as the computer happily posts out the next letter, and smiles even more as it logs the fines rolling in.

You’ve just got to hope that the real idiots out there on the road are being picked off with equal efficiency.

Personally, despite my law-breaking success on the road, I don’t think I’m cut-out for a life of crime;  I just haven’t got the nerve.   I couldn’t nick sweets from the post office as a kid; I never cheated in an exam; never driven under the influence since I left uni’; I’ve always paid my taxes; I couldn’t even bring myself to claim an extra few quid on my travel expenses for the Gunsters Cornish pasty I’d buy from a service station on an evening drive back from a day-long work meeting.

Men and women of the jury please make up your own minds. 

Images removed: Q Bikes (Beano) Hills House ( Bramcote History Society)

Images removed.  The Hemlock Stone (Wikipedia)  and Hills House