Lovely, this part of the world: Epsom. I wouldn't mind living around here. Cost a packet though. Only been here a few times, for the horse racing. Last time was a cracker. About forty of us went. Woke up the next morning a few quid to the good. Great time had by all. Of course, there was plenty of beer and food to be had throughout the day. Had some fizz as well, as I recall. Old Fred missed the coach and fell akip on the train home and ended up in Reigate or someplace. Ha, ha, pissed myself laughing the next day, in the pub when Stan got the call from him. The old fella spent the night in the train station 'cause he couldn't find a cab. Turned up later that afternoon though, all brushed up. Fair play to the old soldier. He must be racking up a good seventy years now.
Hello, what's that dude doing? Going a bit slow in his motor. White mini-van. Renault job. I'm sure I've seen him go past already. Some kind of Neighbourhood watch dude, I suppose. If he wants to give me the eye, he can get his spine out of the car and do it. Tosser. Right then. Get organised. Save the donut for later. Wait a minute; top tune on the radio: Bobby Womack 'Across 110th street.' Listen to this and then hit the road. Only got two streets to do, thirteen addresses all told. Shouldn't take more than half an hour. Tops.
Right, got everything, get out of the motor and lock it up. Sorted. Bit breezy. Zip up the waterproof. At least the firm supply some decent clobber. Geezer in the motor is still staring at me. I'll have a word with the cretin when I've finished. Things you've got to put up with. Here we go-number fourteen. First on the list. Well kept garden and blue front door. Imposing brass knocker. Deep mellow sound. Great, there's someone shuffling to the door.
'Hello, I'm here to check your electric meter reading.'
'Oh, I see. Come on in.'
Dozy old bird. Doesn't even ask to look at my pass. It's always the same. I've even got the customers password, but they rarely ask for it. Meet a lot of loons in this line of work. Here we go, meter under the stairs, have to move a ton of junk to get there. Should have got a job with a removal firm instead, the amount of furniture I shift in a day. Tap the figures into the hand-held. This computerisation larks the business. Saves farting about with pens and forms. Plug it into the telephone line when I get home, press send and Bob's your uncle. All the details are logged at head office in a microsecond. Quick thanks to the old girl and out again. Another one off the list. Wish they were all this easy.
Next two doors and no-ones in. Oh well, move on.
'Oi, mate. Your car has just been clamped.' It's Renault man and blimey O'Riley…he's talking to me.
'What's that pal?'
'You've just had your car clamped.' He pulls his van up to the side of the road and starts pointing to where I parked the motor.
'Clamped? Sodding hell that's all I need. Who did that then?'
'I did.' Christ on a bike, did I hear that correctly.
'You're telling me that you've just clamped my car?'
'That's right.'
He points out of his half-open window to the side of his van, where his firms name is printed, though it might as well be in written in Tipex, the contrast of the lettering with the colour of the van.
'Cost you seventy quid to get it released.'
'Flaming hell! Why didn't you tell me I couldn't park there? You spent enough time eye-balling me. You watched me going to those houses!'
'Just doing my job.' His lip curls as he checks his rear view mirror and edges his motor forward.
'Do you want it released?'
'I'll release you in a minute! Get your namby-pamby arse out of the motor and lose the clamp!' I gurgle and approach him.
His window starts to close. I stick the hand-held in the gap and stop it. It wedges in there.
'Oi, enough of that!' he spits.
Renault van mans face is going scarlet. He starts pulling at the hand-held but it's stuck; only opening the window will release it. Unlike the sodding clamp.
'I'm only doing my job.' Jesus wept, he's at it again, the prize spanner.
'Just release the motor and we'll say nothing more about it.' I offer. Calm like.
'Cost you seventy quid,' he mouthes. Jesus, this is tricky. This is all I need.
'Don't piss me about.'
'Read the sign, it's all legal.'
'Why did you come and find me and tell me about it then? Come to gloat did you?'
'Just thought it would save you time. I could quite easily go someplace and forget about it for an hour or two, if that's what you want.'
'You slimy chancer. This is daylight robbery!' I start pulling at the hand-held but it won't budge. Losing my cool now. I kick the motor's door.
'Stop it! I'll have you for assault!' Too late, I can hear a siren already. Jesus!
A cop car pulls up and two Plods jump out with all the enthusiasm of an assault squad at a G20 summit.
'What's going on here then?' Plod starts. He must be about ten years old. I stare at him. This is all I need.
'We've had a phone call from one of the residents saying there's been a disturbance.' He continues.
'It's this sod, he's gone and clamped my car,' I start, unsure. Disturbance?
'And you are?'
Plod's reaching into his pocket and taking out a notebook. The other Plod’s walking around Renault mans van. Checking. I let go of the hand-held; it hangs there.
'Sean.'
'Sean what? Exactly.'
'Penfold. Sean Penfold.'
I rub my chin; should have had a shave this morning. They'll be having my boatrace on Crimewatch, if I'm not careful.
'He's the one you should be talking to, he's the….'
'Yes,' replies the copper. He peers into the Renault.
'And who are you Sir?'
Here we go; Plod is already calling him Sir.
'Jeff Fisher. I work for Redknapp and Son. I maintain the parking restrictions in the area. This bloke is parked illegally over the road there.' He's manoeuvred his mouth to speak through the gap in the window. Wouldn't put it past him to be a sodding contortionist. Slippery weasel.
'Would you like to step out of the vehicle, please, so we can discuss this?'
'I'm not getting out with that madman standing there!'
The copper ignores him and looks at me.
'And you, Mr. Penfold. What are you doing? Your job?' Plod sighs.
'Meter reader. Electric and gas meters.' I shrug. 'Look at the end of the day, this geezer was looking at me for half an hour and waiting for me to leave the motor so he could clamp it. Then he comes over to me and tells me what he's done. It's well out of order!'
'What's that?' Plod asks, pointing to the hand-held.
'That's my hand-held, the dipstick's clamped that as well.' I make a move to release it. It won't budge.
'Look!' I exclaim.
'Your hand-held?'
'Yes. I use it to record the meter readings.'
'Use it as an offensive weapon more like!' Renault man pipes up. 'You should lock him up. He's mental!'
'Right! Quieten down and lower your window so Mr Penfold can get that contraption.'
The copper gestures with his hand as he puts away his notebook and looks at the other plod, who stares blankly at him.
Silent Plod.
Renault man lowers the window a millimetre and I catch the hand-held. The window hisses shut.
'So the upshot of this situation is that you Mr. Penfold have parked your car illegally and you Mr. Fisher have clamped it.'
The copper looks at Renault man until he has lowered the window again and repeats his spiel. Renault man bloats out his cheeks and nods in agreement. I wrinkle my nose and stare at the smarmy twat. The copper looks at silent Plod again.
'Can you go and check the sign and see what the parking restrictions are?'
Silent Plod walks off.
'Mr. Fisher have you got any I.D. on you showing you work for this clamping company?'
'There you go.'
He passes his laminate through the gap in the window. Still not taking any chances, apparently. The parasitic pleb.
'Mr. Penfold?' Plod asks, looking at Renault mans pass and handing it back. I pull out my pass from the chain around my neck and he gives it a quick glance.
'How much is the release charge?'
'Seventy bloody quid.' I mutter. Plod looks at van man who nods.
'Have you got seventy quid on you?' Plod asks me. I put my hand in my pocket, knowing full well I haven't and shrug. What a pain. Silent Plod returns and nods in agreement when he's asked if the car is illegally parked.
'There's nothing for it but to pay the fine then.' Plod's talking to me. I sigh and look around, look at the big yellow clamp attached to my motor.
'Be easier that way, we don't want to take this any further do we?'
'I'm going to have to go to the cash machine then, where's the nearest one?'
'In the town centre, about two miles away,' Plod offers.
'Two miles. This is costing me more than money you know.' I point at Renault man and shake a fist. Look at the sky, shaking my head.
'Here, I'll give you a lift,' says Plod, pulling out his keys. He looks at his partner. 'I'll take him to the cash machine; you stay here and look after Mr. Fisher. We'll sort this out.' He walks to the Plodmobile and I follow. Nice motor, I think as we pull away.
'Here mate, though, you got to agree that its daylight robbery isn't it?'
'Yeah well, there's nothing we can do, it's all within the law.'
'Christ,' I mutter and we carry on in silence. I fiddle with the hand-held, wanting to throw it out of the window. When we get to the town centre, I get the money and we return to the scene of the crime. 'Thanks for the lift mate,' I tell Plod as we get out of the car. He nods and shrugs.
'Here's your money, now do the business.' I spit at Renault man. He's standing with silent Plod now; obviously feels a bit more protected. I push the cash into the slippery bung-takers sweaty palm and he counts it. Takes his time. Then he starts holding the notes up to the light as if checking for forgeries.
'For christ sake, get on with it!' He looks at me, knowing the coppers will step in any minute. I want to push the highway fleecer's face in, hit him with his own clamp. He pockets the money and goes to the back of his van, gets some stuff out then starts on the clamp. It takes less than a minute to remove it.
'Thanks for nothing,' I say, walking to my car and opening the door.
'By the way Sir.' Silent Plod has piped up. I look around and sigh in relief when I realise it's Renault man he's talking to.
'Did you know your Tax disc is out of date?'
Renault man looks at him as if he's been poll-axed. 'I'm going to have to take your details and inform the DVLA. They'll get the vehicle towed and you will have to pay to get it released from the pound, as you can't drive it away. It could mean points on your license as well.'
I get in the car laughing. 'Result!' I shout, and toot the horn as I drive away. Then I catch a glimpse of the donut on the passenger seat. That'll hit the spot.
'Double result!'
© Mark Byrne 2010