Th­ese f***wits are PARK­ING mad!

Midweek Sport - - NEWS -

MODEL David Gandy – mildly fa­mous for do­ing a David Beck­ham by pos­ing in his pants – has spo­ken of his love of “fra­grance”.

That’s af­ter­shave to you and me.

He says: “I grav­i­tate to­wards fresh, cit­rusy scents – and for the evening, I’ll go for some­thing a bit darker.”

Get some Old Spice on, you fop­pish c***. IT takes a spe­cial kind of per­son to de­fend park­ing tick­ets.

The same sort of in­di­vid­ual you’d ex­pect to en­thu­si­as­ti­cally sup­port 20mph zones and speed bumps and the point­less­ness of traf­fic lights in the mid­dle of the night.

The kind of peo­ple who, with what they con­sider the full weight of a lo­cal coun­cil be­hind them, is­sue state­ments thun­der­ing “I make no apolo­gies for….” and then ask their in­sipid PR teams to fill in the blanks.

Cruel and foul-mouthed ob­servers might con­sider such ilk a bunch of ut­ter f***wits.

As I’m nei­ther – ahem – I’ll leave you to make up your own minds about the fol­low­ing.

When it was re­vealed West­min­ster Coun­cil earned £41.6 MIL­LION in park­ing fine prof­its in 2011/12 alone, up popped lo­cal coun­cil­lor Daniel As­taire to de­fend it.

He said: “The sys­tem is al­ready chang­ing and coun­cils are al­ready look­ing to work with mo­torists to is­sue fewer fines and cru­cially in­crease the amount of peo­ple park­ing cor­rectly.

“If we stay in this Juras­sic age of pure rhetoric about cash cows and money mak­ing, in­no­va­tion will be sti­fled and we can­not en­gage with mo­torists prop­erly to find the best so­lu­tions that will ben­e­fit ev­ery­one.”

Some­where in that ver­bal vomit ap­pears to be the sug­ges­tion that it is time for mo­torists to stop com­plain­ing about be­ing “cash cows”.

Pretty rich, that, con­sid­er­ing that af­ter you’ve paid the “con­ges­tion charge” just to drive through cen­tral Lon­don, you then have to find a park­ing space that doesn’t cost the equiv­a­lent of a Har­rod’s hamper for your car – it­self taxed once a year to be on the road, full of petrol taxed to the hilt – only to get back three min­utes late to find some c*** in a hi-viz jacket and an in­abil­ity to speak English proudly tak­ing a snap of his park­ing ticket on your wind­screen via his shite old Nokia.

Peo­ple of­ten won­der how traf­fic war­dens – or park­ing at­ten­dants, in coun­cil-speak – can sleep at night.

The an­swer is they can’t. They’re far too busy roam­ing the earth for the blood of vir­gins.

Pre­cisely.

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