I am a criminal. A fugitive. A desperate renegade on the run from the slippery tentacles of the law, as authority seeks to wield its frightening power over me. Like Dostoyevsky's Raskolnikov, I have done a terrible, terrible wrong, and must now wrestle with my conscience as I come to terms with my actions.
"Dear Mr Duck," said the letter from the Hampshire Constabulary, which I quote verbatim. "We saw you done a bad, bad thing in Basingstoke last week. You been gone and done 61mph in a fifty zone, which is AGAINST THE LAW and we done take a picture. You is very, very naughty. What you say, huh? Plz to send money.
Boomshanka!
Sgt Dan 'Booked me own granny' Madbastardsson"
My answer was short and to the point: "You'll never take me alive, Copper!" which came out on paper like this: "Guilty".
This probably means that I am going to have to show fully paid-up members of the law enforcement community my driving licence, and this is just about the worst thing that could happen. I'm in enough trouble as it is. See:
I should have known better. Basingstoke is the town with Brtain's biggest bunch of speed camera-wielding bastards going, who were famously featured on national TV when they really did book their own granny. What chance does a lead-footed idiot like me stand? It's a genetic condition. I come from a long line of dreadful drivers, it was only a matter of time before I found myself caught in a web of my own crapness.
As a matter of fact, I simply do not understand what's gone wrong here. They should be paying me to leave Basingstoke. The faster the better.
This is the first time I've ever been convicted of any crime ever, and I fully expect the floodgates to open. God, I hope they never find the bodies.
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