Takes all sorts

I’d intended to write much more about our holiday, but I’ve decided that listening to other people talk about their holidays is like listening to other people talk about a dream they had – that’s nice, but I wasn’t there. So, added to the fact that I could witter on for days about all the weird and wonderful things that happened I’ve decided to park it. It was the best holiday I’ve ever had and me and the Other Half had a blast so let’s just leave it there, shall we? Good. I thought you’d agree.

Instead I feel compelled to talk about possibly the most disturbing fly-on-the-wall TV show I’ve ever seen. Traffic Cops on Tuesday night had me wincing with horror, and not quite sure whose side I was on. To set the scene, a patrol car had been called to a layby off a B road somewhere up north, with reports that a man had been seen lying drunk in the road, and had then climbed into the cab of a parked lorry. When the officers showed up, it was established with the help of witnesses that the driver had come wobbling up the road from a nearby pub, got into his cab, got out again, lain in the road for a bit, presumably got bored and got back in the cab. So, being upstanding citizens they immediately called the rozzers, fearing that a drink-driving offence was about to be committed. All well and good so far, and fairly straightforward for the police to deal with – get the guy out of his lorry, take the keys off him and book him. Except this is where it all sort of spiralled off into the sort of telly that has you simultaneously hiding your eyes while peeking through your fingers as you stare, transfixed with disbelief, as someone’s life spectacularly implodes on your telly. When the nice policemen opened the cab door, they were greeted with the sight of a man (who despite the blurred-out face looked to be in his thirties) in the drivers seat, wearing a t-shirt, a pair of black tights and high heeled boots (at this point I’m such a girl that I’m thinking to myself “ooh, black tights and brown boots. That just doesn’t go – what was he thinking??”, before realising that anything in a size twelve with a stiletto heel is probably acceptable if you have a bit of cross-dressing lined up – I’m sure the range isn’t exactly expansive). To be fair the guy was so drunk that it probably didn’t seem that bad at the time – I mean, it’s not like being filmed by the BBC getting caught having a furtive wank in a northern layby, wearing your best 30-deniers and some shoes you found in the Save the Children shop is necessarily THAT bad, is it? He just sort of stoically sat it out for a bit, until it became clear that a) the coppers wanted him out of the cab NOW and b) they weren’t about to let him put his trousers on first. At this point I began to find the whole thing very uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable enough to change channels, obviously. I mean, this had already happened, right? And it’s not like I could make any difference to this bloke’s downfall by doing the decent thing and not being witness to his shame. Besides which, I was dying to see what sort of pants he had on. So anyway, a Mexican standoff developed, with the police ordering the driver out of the cab, and the driver holding his trousers and asking for a couple of minutes. All the while, the coppers are shining a torch in his face, a camera crew is standing behind them, and presumably the girls who had called the police in the first place had subsequently texted everyone in their phonebooks to invite them down to watch. This is where my dilemma arises – it turned out that “lying in the road” was a giggly euphemism for “wanking in the road”, and therefore this man was also charged and convicted of indecent assault. So, I feel a bit weird for having sympathy for someone who, wherever on the scale they fall, is a sex offender. On the other hand, two points. Firstly, I think the police officers acted unprofessionally and were revelling in the fact that this guy’s embarrassment was being witnessed by not only themselves, but the watching bystanders and potentially a very wide audience when the programme was broadcast, and this was the reason for not allowing him to get his trolleys on before getting out of the lorry. Secondly – although it’s very very weird, think about how fucked up you have to be to get so drunk that you can’t think of a better way to conclude the evening than to crack one out in public, wearing tights, and to then find yourself confronted with the police and a camera crew capturing your shame. I’m sure we’ve all woken up with the fear on numerous occasions – how must it be to wake up with your head pounding and a tongue like a lolly stick, and have to piece together the previous evenings events thus: “blimey, what on earth did I do last night? And where the hell am I? I remember being in the pub…..hang on, this is a police cell…….and I’ve got tights on, despite the fact that I’m called Colin……..oh bloody hell, I didn’t did I??” In a horrible sort of way it’s funny, of course it is. Nothing better than a lorry driver in tights to put your own problems in perspective and all that, but I wonder if he had a wife and kids, and how they must have felt – not only to find out what had happened, but to then have it broadcast across the nation (there was a long shot of the lorry cab and although the name etc was obscured I’m sure the livery would be recognisable to local people)? Bruh.

Oh, and it was a silver thong. Apparently.