I READ WITH some mirth last week of the fate that befell a pizza delivery man who was busted speeding in the imaginatively-monikered Australian conurbation of Townsville.
This "Prince of Pepperoni" got nicked doing a whopping 53km/h over the 80 km/h speed limit. There's fast food and then there's ridiculous.
Considerate chaps that they are, the cops waited for him to make his drop before busting him. (Rations must be improving in Aussie police stations. Either that or they just didn't like pineapple.)
His half-baked excuse when apprehended? He was 20 minutes late with his delivery.
The great galloping galoot got fined €800 and banned from driving for 15 months.
My sympathies to all our readers in Townsville. As your local pizza joint's logistics executive will be on a bicycle for many moons to come, it's probably best to plump for a Chinese if you're peckish and in a rush.
While the above was a novel excuse, I've heard worse. Far, far worse. As have the police.
Take the South Wales police. My favourite on their list of top excuses proffered by those trying to get off speeding tickets is: "My car was stolen overnight and returned to the same point. I didn't report this to the police, as the first thing I knew of the matter was when a notice of intended prosecution for speeding came through my door."
That's brilliant. It covers all the bases. How could it be disproved that this poor fellow's car hadn't been briefly appropriated by a flurry of joyriders intent on scrambling his mental state?
Here's another good one: "My budgie was close to death and I was rushing it to the vet."
How black a heart would you need to convict that person?
We're talking budgies here: cute, fluffy budgies. Soon-to-be deceased ones, no less. Aww. The driver obviously had no option. What else could one do? Make it fly to the vet?
I'd now like to share with you a story containing my favourite excuse, ever. Obviously, I've made it up. Much as I'd like it to be real, it's not. But feel free to try it out yourself.
There was a middle-aged gent - burdened as he was with that wonderful cliché, the mid-life crisis - who'd just bought himself a brand new ego-boosting sportscar. A red one. (Aren't they always?)
Imbued, as he was, with that feeling of invulnerability so enjoyed by the young, he tore off down a motorway. He was happily driving along at 150km/h when a Garda car pulled up behind him.
Seeing it approach, our hero's hormones got the better of him and he floored it. 'Speedo' got up to 190km/h. Then up to 200km/h. All the while the Garda was stuck to his tail. (See, told I you it wasn't real. Garda cars don't go on motorways and can't go over 150km/h.) Eventually, our friend relented.
"Look pal, you're not an amphetamine-fuelled teen outlaw on the run," he said to himself in the rearview mirror.
"You are a balding 50-something stationery company middle manager with manhood issues. You'll end up in prison unless you cop on."
So over he pulled.
Garda Malachy got out of his car and strolled up purposefully, wearing his best Dirty Harry face.
"Good day, sir," says he, leaning in the window.
"In a bit of a hurry, are we? Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't haul you off to Mountjoy?"
Our hero thought to himself while Garda Malachy stood waiting impatiently, evidently itching for him to make his day.
"Sorry, but my wife ran off with a Garda last night," he said. "When I saw you chasing me, I thought you were him trying to bring her back."
"Oh. On your way, sir. And have a nice day."