There’s a new sheriff in town

I USED to have a cowboy hat and sheriff’s badge when I was seven – I wanted to run the baddies out of town and stand up for all things right and decent.

Scarily, after decades of lying dormant, the urge to be sheriff (or Calamity Jane) again arises in most blokes/ladies over a certain age!

Whether we are in our cars, watching the telly or down the shops, the mere whiff of wrongdoing can send us “off on one” – much to the horror/ embarrassment of our other halves. It doesn’t take much.

An ASBO family outing or a new traffic scheme from some mentalist at the council will provide a rich buffet for middle-aged posse members.

Every now and then a sheriff will be in the the news for trying to do a citizen’s arrest on a lout or refusing to sort their rubbish into five different bins. (I’m sure many Chronicle readers have pulled on the invisible stetson and squinted meanly like Clint Eastwood when facing their own personal “high noon”.)

Sometimes it can end tragically, sometimes it can end comically. My Sicilian-born uncle from Australia, who is a tough little radgie with no fear, is probably the best personal example I know.

When over here and visiting the Metrocentre, he came across two idiots vandalising a toilet cubicle.

He immediately turned on them and yelled in his unique Sydney/Sicilian accent: “What the ***** ya doin’?”

He man-handled the pair out of the nettie and their bravado and swagger faded more quickly than a Brexit deal in Brussels.

The inner lawman can surprise us at any time. I was out walking with my good lady in Hexham when we found our route down a narrow pathway blocked by a bunch of “yoofs” who were clearly not moving for anybody. I’m certainly no cage fighter, yet as I approached the lounging lads my “Wyatt Earp” response kicked in .

The back straightened, my eyes narrowed and the boiled sweet in my mouth became chewin’ baccy. I imagined the strains of the “Good, the Bad and the Ugly” floating on the breeze and I could almost hear the saloon doors creaking behind me. I started to speak. Real slow. I was hoping for John Wayne-type confidence but probably sounded more like Elvis after a rough night. “Alreet lads, would youse mind moving?”, I politely enquired, feeling the universal forces of right were on my side. Silence hung like an Injun smoke signal.

My trigger finger itched under my TK Maxx bargain rail waterproof, (though what I would reach for was a question without an answer).

“Ain’t none of you pilgrims got a civil tongue?”, I said in my head, with my jaw set in steely determination. In reality, I was silently and unblinkingly staring at them like Mike Ashley at a Rafa summer transfer target list. The eldest yob was frozen, his face as blanched as his once white tracksuit.

He clearly was doing some new sums in his head – “is this old gadgie actually a bit radgie?”.

I could see my woman, out the corner of my eye, looking distinctly unsure about the unfolding standoff.

Suddenly, it happened. They split like a boy band after their disappointing second album – “sorry mister, we didn’t mean to block ye oot like”. I silently nodded and walked on into the sunset. (Well, Tyne Green actually.)

This hombre will ride again... Mike is performing his own, allnew one-hour show entitled “On Yer Bike Mike – Giz a Job”, which covers his numerous employment adventures, at The Stand Comedy Club on Monday, April 29.