There’s really no need to SHOUT!
THE FUNNY SIDE OF LIFE WITH OUR HICK FROM THE STICKS
IN the late 1970s, I was pulled over by a blue-lit police patrol car and an officer asked: “Excuse me sir, was that a peach you were eating at the wheel?”
I nervously admitted the fruit felony, he turned to his colleague and shouted: “It was a peach, Barry. That’s a quid you owe me.”
The PC then thrust his head through my open window and laughed: “Stupid pranny swore it was an apple.” With that, they were gone. Rules of the road were more lax in those innocent days. If you were spotted glugging a bottle of whisky while guiding your Morris Marina, the boys in blue would’ve been stirred into action. A fish and chip supper at 60mph would go unpunished, although my mate was once stopped by a Bobby who asked: “Was that a saveloy, sir?”
He added: “It WAS a saveloy, Dave. That’s a pint you owe me.”
Despite coming from an age when downing three pints of lager was looked on as conforming with drinkdrive laws, I’m surprised by the glut of motorists currently being caught while dining at the wheel.
News website Dailymotion blares: Cereal offender: “Brain dead” driver caught eating Sugar Puffs.
The Daily Mail: Driver caught eating yoghurt at wheel.
Bolton News: Police catch driver eating noodles.
Metro: France driver caught watching film and eating fois gras.
Eating at the wheel seems to be a new and increasing menace. I urge police to clamp down before someone sparks up a barbecue.
YouTube is crammed with the culinary stunts, with bowls of cereal the most popular snack-on-the go.
I’ll sit up and take notice when someone’s collared tackling spaghetti.
Closer to home, one hungry individual was caught with porridge while doing 50mph on the M6. I don’t condone his actions, but I think we’d all agree the manoeuvre takes a degree of skill.
Perhaps highway chiefs should consider including food in advanced driv- ing tests: three-point turns while eating an ice-cream, an emergency stop while tackling a kebab.
It would separate the wheat from the chaff, particularly if you included Weetabix.
One paper was so shocked it took the bold move of shrieking the word: “A hungry motorist was spotted scoffing PORRIDGE.”
I’m not sure the oat meal is exciting enough to merit capital letters and feel such literary dramatics should be saved for more spectacular breakfast fare, such as EGGS BENEDICT, SMOKED KIPPERS and KEDGEREE.
Placing words in capitals – presumably for the hard of hearing – is an ageold tabloid trait, however, and often ill-used. While working for a weekly newspaper, I informed readers: “A cyclist has been treated for a SPRAINED ankle following a traffic collision on the Cannock Road.
“Alan Parson, reputed to be a WELDER, has been described as COMFORTABLE by members of the ambulance service who attended the scene.”
In all, the piece contained five words in capital letters, leading my hard-bitten editor to declare: “Should a prominent member of the Royal Family pop their clogs, we’ve rather shot our bolt, haven’t we?”
Following the article’s publication, one elderly reader complained in a letter: “PLEASE DON’T SHOUT!”
Such a trait was once the domain of glossy magazine martial arts adverts: “Learn to MAIM and CRIPPLE your tormentors.”
As a 16-year-old, I was so seduced by such loud language, enlisting in a mail order course that pledged to make Yours Truly a master in the lost Tibetan art of Lap Chi, a self-defence technique that could, using the strength of one’s “inner chi”, overpower assailants with one touch from an index finger.
“Fear no man!” the advert bellowed. “Your opponents will MELT before you and women will find your powers IRRESISTIBLE, leading you to enjoy CARNAL relationships with up to 20 a year*.” (Small print: “*the phrase ‘up to’ clearly includes the number ‘0’ and, therefore, is not legally binding.”)
“This man,” the ad in Spotty Kids Weekly added, “has hidden his face because he faces death after revealing the secrets of Tibet’s Lap Chi monks.”
It later transpired the Grand Master had hidden his face because the Inland Revenue was keen to interview him.
The correspondence course didn’t work. They sent me a very colourful sock with the instruction: “Fill this with loose change and strike your adversary over the head with it. NEVER use this weapon in anger.” This baffled me. You are not going to strike someone with a leaden stick by way of a greeting.
During a dancefloor altercation, I spent so much time searching for my inner chi and attempting to prod my opponent with an index finger that he kicked me three times in the groin.
He also bit my index finger.