The roads seem to be rigged to detect particularly low grade offences nowadays. And when you’ve done nothing wrong at all, the police seem to get ferociously cross. I was once read the riot act by a bearded cop on a motorbike who banged on my window as I sat in gridlock on the Albert Embankment and told me that I was not paying sufficient attention to what was going on around me.
When I asked what he would like me to do he didn’t seem to have any specific ideas; he just thought I didn’t look adequately focused. I pointed out that I had been sitting motionless for half an hour and so letting my hands drop from the ten to two position and staring despairingly into space until the car in front moved again seemed entirely reasonable.
But he was incandescent and warned me that I was lucky he was on his way to an urgent incident or he would book me — presumably for the well-known offence of ‘not driving without due care and attention’.
Another time, I was stopped and breathalysed, a few days before Christmas, as I was going down Park Lane at midnight. The cops thought I was driving erratically, but in fact I was doing 20mph because I like driving slowly and because I like driving slowly I had to change lanes every few seconds to get out of the way of Porsches hassling me from behind.
‘So, been drinking, have we?’ said the policeman who pulled me over, looking ecstatic.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘You’ve not had anything to drink at all?’
‘Well, I had a glass of wine on February 9th 2001. But I doubt it would be in my system now.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
He got out his big shiny machine and made me blow into it. Zero. So he made me get out my licence. To his delight, I had an old paper one, having forgotten to send off for the new plastic card because it had only just been introduced. ‘This, here, is an offence,’ he fumed. ‘I could book you for this right now.’ But he didn’t, because even he could see that he was starting to channel Leslie Nielsen in The Naked Gun.
My latest run-in was more serious. I was on the phone. Appalling, I know. I had been waiting in all morning for a call from a friend whose business is going to the wall and he finally rang as I was waiting at a set of traffic lights. I snatched up the mobile: ‘Are you alright? I’m worried about you. You haven’t answered my messages for days. Hang on, I need to pull over.’
But as we know, there is nowhere to pull over in Britain any more. Every square inch of road is covered by cameras. So you can’t stop. Not until the siren starts flashing behind you. I wound down my window as the policeman peered in. ‘I know!’ I whined. ‘I know, I know, I know, I know…’
‘If you know, then why did you do it?’ he said.
‘Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…’ I assumed he was going to book me, and that I would never get reasonable car insurance again. I am only just nearing a date in court with the couple who, a year ago, accused me of grievously whiplashing them in a prang on Streatham High Road.
‘Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no…’ I wailed as I thought about my next renewal quote. Possibly I would have to stop driving altogether. And then I wouldn’t be able to get to the horses. So I would have to move to Surrey and live in a derelict barn, which is all I can afford in Cobham.
I was wondering how I would heat a derelict barn as I handed over my licence and the policeman disappeared back to his van. When he returned I had concluded that you probably couldn’t heat a derelict barn and was quietly sobbing. ‘Oh no (sob) oh no (sob) oh no (sob) oh no…’
‘Right. I’ve recorded a warning and if you get stopped again it will be three points and a fine.’
‘Oh thank you!’ I cried. ‘Oh thank you, oh thank you, oh thank you, oh thank you…’
He looked at me with something I took to be pity, though it could easily have been disdain. ‘Remember how this feels and switch off your phone. This is as bad as drink driving.’
‘I know!’ I said, feeling genuine remorse at how close I had come to an insurance premium of £3,000 a year. ‘I know, I know, I know, I know…’
He handed me back my licence. ‘Don’t start that again.’
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