Traffic wardens - like a plague of locusts - are one of this nation's most vilified sub-species. They're generally monosyllabic or completely mute, walk with a shuffle, spit in three directions and have all the charm of a face-to-face encounter with Gollum. As if by chance, it was just four weeks ago, whilst I was out dogging in the little but very popular layby that runs at the back of the A34 just north of Oxford, that one of their kind slapped a yellow-and-black ticket on my Daimler. Who would have known that 30 minutes of fun in the bushes and over the picnic tables could have cost me a £40 Fixed Penalty Charge?
Since that time, I have issued my chauffeur with written instructions (they are sellotaped to the steering wheel) to show them no mercy and run them over, as a matter of cause (Juan loves a game of ten-pin bowling). And my tactic for evading the clutches of the traffic warden whilst out dogging? I invented this little game to keep their tiny little brains occupied....
