JaJa99. No 194. Friday 21st May 2021

As a hurricane blows and gardening or other outdoor pursuits look mightily unattractive, I am cosily perched at my desk with nothing better to do than file a new edition of JaJa99.

I am currently going through the process of being accepted as a volunteer tennis coach at school. You might think this would be quite straightforward. In which case you are unfamiliar with modern bureaucracy! Hopefully by Monday week I will emerge from four weeks or so of vetting, checking, form-filling, referees and interviews that will allow me to impart my extensive knowledge and experience to the teenagers of this establishment; as an unpaid volunteer. This is of course a Government requirement. It’s all part of our modern society that requires, for instance, at least four signs around the iconic cricket field that warn “CAUTION cricket is being played here”. These tastefully produced blue and white wooden boards are nailed to walls that are about three and a half feet high, meaning that almost all but Snow White’s assistants can see over the wall. Hence, at the same time as reading the notice it is possible to lengthen one’s field of vision and observe that there are indeed white clothed persons undertaking the traditional English pursuit and therefore there is the potential danger that a small red leather ball might….MIGHT come hurtling in your direction. Alternatively, the field is deserted, as it is for the majority of the time, in which case the greatest danger is that a squadron of seagulls will be disturbed by a groundsman and take flight in your direction, opening the bomb bay doors as they pass overhead. It’s mildly interesting to contemplate how many trees have been felled to facilitate the placing of such totally unnecessary and absurd notices in many venues around the country.

On a radio programme earlier today they were talking about the duties of traffic cops and were asking for listeners motoring experiences. I confess there has been the odd occasion in my life when I may have marginally exceeded the permitted speed limit. The first instance I remember was in 1972, when at the age of twenty one I had a brand new, shiny red MGB convertible. I was putting it through its paces on the new by-pass around my home town, when a policeman bravely stepped out in front of me and waved me down. Radar traps were a new thing then and clearly the technology wasn’t as good as it is now. I got away with a severe warning because I was going too fast in a 30 mph limit for the radar to register my exact speed! Not long after that I was again at the helm of the red monster hurtling towards the Belfast docks early in the morning for a brief break from internal security duties when an RUC constable flagged me down and informed me that I was not entirely compliant with the current speed regulations. I apologised profusely whilst showing him my RAF identity card, at which point he stepped aside, saluted and with a cheery smile wished me well as he waved me on my way. A few years later I was the proud owner of a Lotus Europa John Player Special. You cannot own such a thrilling drive and go slowly. I had my adopted brother alongside me as we hurtled from a Catholic friend’s wedding service to the reception, some fifteen miles away. If you have ever attended a Catholic wedding mass you will know they do go on a bit. We were both wearing morning dress, but I guess the lucky bit is that it was before the champagne reception. Eager to be first in the queue for bubbly I was showing my slightly nervous passenger what the little charger was capable of. I hadn’t noticed that a uniformed gentleman was slowly gaining on me on his very powerful BMW motorcycle. When he finally overhauled us he was visibly shaking, explaining that he had had to go extremely quickly to catch us. I was very tempted to suggest how dangerous that was, but untypical caution overcame my bravado. Richard just happened to be a solicitor and I did say to the slightly fraught, leather clad officer that I would have to consult my lawyer beside me before making any comment. Said officer wasn’t amused and on this occasion, the first of many sadly, I got done.

For the most part though, I have been reasonably lucky. Another time I was in a different Lotus, a beautiful little white convertible Elan Sprint, coming off the M4 Motorway into Chippenham in Wiltshire. In those days there wasn’t a 70 mph limit on motorways, but coming off it, there were quite rapid changes down to 50 and then 30. I well remember being stopped by an unmarked, vivid purple Ford Capri, whose occupant told me that I had just broken three speed limits in quick succession which was enough for me to lose my licence there and then. Fortunately, he was obviously so enamoured by driving such a gauche car that he let me off with only one offence and a warning as to my future conduct. (Which never did improve.) I don’t mind a fair contest, but when you’ve been driving a hire car on business in Italy or Holland and get a fine through the post seven or eight months later, via Europcar or Hertz, having passed a camera at 36 mph, all the fun has gone out of motoring life. It’s just possible Brexit may have stopped that particular form of torture?

For any officers of the law who happen to be reading this I am now a reformed character and observe every limit with absolute punctiliousness. Driving a rather dull Citroen helps.