Monday Night Action

Monday night myself, Brad, Helen and Alish whizzed off to Dublin to see Train at Vicar Street. They were great.

I am always nervous seeing bands live. I worry they will be shit. Studio production is forgiving. Live performance is not. Thankfully Train outperformed my expectations. They were musically and vocally brilliant. During one song, Pat the lead singer asked the band to stop and did a verse completely unaccompanied. It was incredible.

It reminded me of Heather Small of M People at the NEC about twenty years ago. There was a power failure. Everything except the emergency lighting went off. While the techies tried to fix it, Heather stood at the front of the stage and sang. Her voice filled the 12,000 seater arena. It was one of the most awesome experiences I have ever had. I still get goose bumps thinking about it.

I have digressed. As per usual.

With the concert over and some of us having work the next day, we skipped the drinks and headed for the car. Somewhere outside Dublin, on the motorway, I pulled into lane two to overtake a tanker. The speed limit was 120kmph. I was doing that. The tanker was doing about 70.

Then the headlights appeared behind me. Huge. Bright. Close. A boy racer in a van. "Asshole," I thought.

In that split second, my brain did what brains do. It slowed everything down and presented me with options.

Option one: Carry on as normal. Let him get annoyed and try to fight past me. Pull in once I had cleared the tanker. Give him the finger as he drives past.

Option two: Slam on the brakes. Watch him panic and do the same. Ensure he sees me smiling and clapping.

Option three: Slow right down. Crawl past the tanker. Take my sweet time. Then wave like a ninety year old woman whose car has not been used in three days and she is worried it is getting lonely.

Option four: Speed up. Get it over with. Be boring about it.

Nine times out of ten I pick option two. I care very little if they go into the back of me. Yes, it is paperwork and hassle. But I get to say "This is what you get for tailgating, you moron." I know it is the wrong attitude. But I hate tailgating with a passion I usually reserve for a certain family member who shall remain unnamed in case they read this.

This time I chose option one. I stuck at my speed, passed the tanker, and glided into lane one. As the driver pulled alongside, my middle finger was pressed firmly against the steamed-up window. The four of us in the car had raised the temperature enough that the windows were practically opaque. All he could see was my hand and finger. That was all I could see of him too.

He passed me and made his way ahead. That was when I noticed he was a member of the Garda Siochana. The police.

Now, contrary to popular belief, I have a lot of respect for the gardai. They do a difficult job under high pressure and rarely get the thanks they deserve. People complain about being stopped unnecessarily. But if you have done nothing wrong, you should not be complaining. "Why are not you catching real criminals?" they say when they have been stopped for speeding. Well, they are catching real criminals. You. You broke the law. Deal with it.

Anyway. He drove past me and all four of us in the car went "Ooooooh" in unison and started giggling. If this had been a playground, someone would have been chanting "You are in trouble." But this was not a playground. He pulled in twenty feet ahead, matching my speed. Then the blue lights came on.

We pulled over. I wound down the window. He put his hands on the door.

"If you can tell me why I pulled you over, I will not prosecute you. And remember, I saw everything."

What was he going to prosecute me for? Improper hand signals? I genuinely do not know. Swearing at someone can be classed as verbal abuse. Maybe the finger counts as a gesture of abuse. Either way, I was about to find out.

"You probably pulled me over because I gave you the finger," I said.

"Yes. Can I see your license please?"

It was nice to know that in his apparent fury, he had retained some manners. Probably more than I could have done. He was also quite fit. A real looker, as my nan would have said.

Off he trotted with my license. We giggled in the car about me going to prison. Then I realised I had not actually done anything wrong. My finger reaction was because he was tailgating me. As he walked back, my dander went up. I was trying to work out what he could possibly charge me with. I was already planning my one phone call.

"You live over here?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Nearly six years."

"You should get that changed," he said, handing me back my UK license.

"I did not realise I had to. But okay."

"Now, what you did was not very nice, was it?"

"Well, in my defence, you were tailgating me."

"Yes, I know. But you were not very courteous."

"Sorry. If I had known you were a garda, I would not have done it."

"Well, you should use the slow lane if you do not like people coming up too fast behind you."

"I was overtaking."

"Yeah yeah, I saw. Either way, be more courteous on the road."

I took this as his way of saying "Yeah, okay, I was tailgating. But I am a garda and you are not, so there." If it had been anyone else, I would probably have said "I will be more courteous if you drive better." But I know when the going is good. I shut my mouth and said okay. He sent us on our way.

In a side note: slow lane? Since when have the emergency services been trained to call it a slow lane? It is lane one, two or three. I drive in lane one not because it is the "slow lane" but because one of the first rules of the road is "keep left." It is a shame more people do not abide by that rule.

So, what had I actually done wrong? What charges could have been brought against me? Is it an offence to give the finger to a member of the Garda Siochana? Surely if it is illegal to do it to them, it should be illegal to do it to everyone. If that is the case, I expect to be in court a lot. It is my standard response to many situations. Bad driving. Insane requests. Brad asking me to pass the remote. If it is an offence, I am in a huge heap of trouble.

Even through my confusion, I have giggled most of the week about this. About his pettiness. About me being defensive. I have giggled even more at the fact that if he had looked at the front of the car, he would have noticed my tax was out. Thank goodness he did not. This has since been rectified, I hasten to add.

*Every family member reading this is now wondering if it is them. It could be.