Emissions/Kilian Doyle: I finally took the plunge last week and got insured to drive my ladyfriend's car. I felt sorry for it, sitting outside our house, subjected only to occasional forays into traffic under the unflinching control of her impeccable driving skills.
The poor machine was just itching for some action, some adrenalin, I could tell. That evening we drove into town, parked on the quiet residential Synge Street and jumped out excitedly, blind to anything but the fact that we were about to have reggae legend Jimmy Cliff shine a light of joy into our souls at a gig round the corner.
Gliding back to our carriage two hours later on a cloud of smiles, we passed a several cars plastered with the telltale sticker of doom. "Poor things," said she. "Serves 'em right, shouldn't have parked there," I snorted, ever gracious. But a sense of dread soon overcame me.
I realised they all had clamps. "Bugger," said I as I peeled the inevitable label off the Suzuki. "Bugger, bugger, bugger. Who ever heard of disc parking until midnight?" Was I livid?
Technically, I had reason to be. First day back behind the wheel and busted already. But, oddly enough, I wasn't. It surprised herself no end. For instead of wailing and moaning at the injustice of my horrible existence and how it was all a conspiracy to grind me down, I was cackling mightily, delighted with the irony of it all.
Clampers have, after all, been the targets of my invective on at least one occasion in this very column. (I believe the term "petty power-trippers" was bandied about, but who's checking?) Cursory inspection of the ticket tucked under the wiper showed the Suzuki had been snared a mere 15 minutes previously. My admiration grew steadily for the wily gits who'd managed to track me down with such precision and serve their revenge so cold that it was almost frozen.
And there they were, 20 yards away, cruising like a pair of kerbcrawlers in their van. I strolled up and nodded at the fella in the passenger seat. He didn't want to open the door. So I opened it for him.
"Good evening, gentlemen. As you can see, I've just been clamped, and I would like to get rid of it. May I just pay you now?"
He looked at me, almost as stunned as me at how polite I was managing to be. "Naw, sorry, you've to ring the depot and sort it out with them," he answered, visibly relaxing. "But I don't have my mobile with me," I explained. "Do I have to go through the whole rigmarole of finding a phone box?" He smiled. "Well, I wouldn't normally do this, but in your case. . ."
Nice one, I thought, reaching for my wallet, anticipating a request to engage in the gentleman's agreement that is so crudely dubbed a bribe in some circles. But instead, he grabbed his walkie-talkie. I slipped my hand out of my pocket, hoping he hadn't noticed my near faux pas. After some haggling, he got base to call his own mobile so I could rattle my credit card details at them.
Five short, painless minutes later, I'd paid the ransom and the hostage was freed from its cruel incarceration.
They appeared such decent souls that I was almost grateful. I suspect I may have been infected with a brief dose of the Stockholm Syndrome.
I almost thanked them as I took my leave. Until I remembered they'd just relieved me of €80.