Previously on English Bitcherature... Poor, undervalued teacher Andrew Mills was having the birthday from hell, but at least his hair looked good....Instinctively I pulled to the right, to leave some room to pass, but the car just pulled up right behind my back bumper and the policeman, who I could now clearly see in the mirror, was indicating that he wanted me over on the left. He wanted me! Why does he want me? What have I done? “Did I go through a red?” I asked Cathryn, who didn’t think so. Racking my brain for a reason, I did as I was told (because I’m a good boy) and parked up next to the pavement.
This next part is the clincher. The tranquility of an approaching storm. I got out and walked towards the law, hoping I carried with me a devastating combination of charm and innocence (the reality being far closer to a hobbling Golem-like figure stinking of desperation) and asked in the best clichéd voice I could, all together now, “what seems to be the problem, officer?”
“According to our records, you’re driving without insurance”, said PC Bastard.
Is that possible? My girlfriend got the policy out and there had been complications, but surely I can’t have been driving around uninsured?
“If you’d just like to give me your driving license and get back in the vehicle, sir, we’re going to make some checks.”
After assuring the police (the bloody police!) that this must be some kind of mistake I got back in the car and told Cathryn what had happened. I phoned my girlfriend and asked her to speak to the insurance people but really all I could do now was wait. And wait. And wait. In the mirror I could see them and they really didn’t look that busy. They laughed occasionally, which must have been lovely for them. And I continued to wait. Then, finally, the bigger of the two walking knuckles got out the car and walked towards us.
I got out and was finally face to knuckle with him. He had the sort of head you could imagine was really good at knocking in fence posts or rolling pastry and you could tell he loved his job. “On this occasion we will be charging you with the offence of driving without insurance.” He said, almost flatlining he was so nonchalant about the whole thing. “Hang on!” I said, “that’s not possible.” The other knuckle had tanked his way out of the car by this point and I was now flanked on either side by two massive mouth-breathers who seemed perplexed that someone was querying their orders.
“Well, it is possible”, said the one whose eyebrows met snugly with his hairline. “We’ve just been checking on our system and it’s confirmed. And another thing, while we were speaking with your insurance company they told us someone was trying to reinsure the car at the same time.” He reported this last bit with a level of condescension equivalent to 107 retirement home nurses or three CJs from Eggheads.
“Relax, Colombo,” I said (obviously I didn't - although I did ask the next bit) “do you really think that if I was trying to get away with not having any car insurance I would immediately go about getting it sorted? I know all about it cos I asked my girlfriend to try to rectify the situation the moment I realised there was a problem.”
“Oh.” He said, looking visibly disappointed that this hadn’t been his Kaiser Sose moment. “Anyway, you have the right to remain silent….” Is this real? Is this actually happening on my birthday? I’m getting my rights read to me, my car taken away and a huge fine all on my special day. OK, that’s enough now. Where’s Beadle? Oh, that’s right, he’s dead. Typical. Although him croaking it did lead to the world’s best tabloid headline of ‘Beadle’s Not About’, which did offer me some comfort in those difficult times. Right, now for some futile bite back.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” I said as I unpacked the GCSE folders ostentatiously from the boot of the car. “I’ll just get my GCSE folders out of here so I can carry them home then,” I added, realising that they hadn’t got the none-to-subtle hint that I was a poor, hard-working teacher who was just trying to do his job.
“The fact is, Sir, you have no insurance and if you’d hit my little girl…”
“Spare me the emotive speech, please,” I interrupted. “What, so if I’d hit your little girl and she was lying there dying on the pavement with blood pissing out of her little girl face and arms, your biggest quibble would be whether I was fully comp?” Ok, so I obviously didn’t say all of that, but I did ask him to spare me his babble when he began. As I remember it, the lamentable story of the ‘little girl’ had been wheeled out by a Mancunian knuckle when I almost went through a red light as a student in Manchester. Is that their go-to fable to get us, the naughty public, to think again about our anarchic (almost a red light) ways? Was Guy Fawkes not berated on his way to the gallows by a Ye Olde knuckle proclaiming, “If my little girl had been in the Houses of Parliament that night…”
Back to Crimewatch and Crocket and Tubbs were just winding up their collar of the century. “You’ll need this slip to get the car back… Sign here... Stand still for a photograph...” Honestly, the humiliation never ends. Now they actually take a picture of you at the scene. I gave them the classic profile; not that they deserved it and left them with some fairly stock phrases of, “How do you sleep at night?” and, “You really love your job, don’t you?” before stomping off to the train station with armfuls of bags, papers and ill intent. Did I mention it was my birthday?
A little sugar to the pill was that I had to (I just had to) take the next day off to sort out the disaster and got to spend the day dealing with other terrible humans. The car pound is as close to prison as you’ll ever get without spending time at bum-be-gone land, but don’t think anal rape is off the cards yet. Bend right on over there, chief and lube up for the 170 quid, on top of the 200 pound fine.
My two favourite things about the pound were the holding pen (an outdoor cage you have to wait in before being seen, adorned with some of the best anti-establishment graffiti I’ve seen – an example of which is at the top of the post) and the fact that if you don’t pick your car up before 12 noon the next day the fine increases and guess what time the pound opens? 11:30am. Genius. These people should be in politics.
So there you have it. 34 years on the planet and that’s what life gives me for all my hard work. Well, fuck you, life! Now there’s the small matter of the upcoming court case. Next!
Thanks again for stalwart contributor, Rob. A confusing one there for a while, but got there in the end and you, Nabila, for making it clear and getting all racialist. Peace.
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