Had a scary moment this week. Sitting at the keyboard, desperately digging in my imagination for something to write about when ... psssfffizzz . . . my skull filled with white noise, writes Kilian Doyle
Finally, I thought, as I became smothered by an uncontrollable fury, the old grey matter has flipped its wig completely.
(Regular readers will understand that I fear for my sanity with good reason. To call me slightly unhinged is akin to calling Charlie Haughey a bit shifty.)
I quickly ascertained, with no small relief, that the buzzing in my head was not the sound of synapses misfiring but rather a flock of vile street urchins tearing around on minimotos outside my house, terrorising all unfortunate enough to cross their hellbent paths - pets, pedestrians and pensioners alike.
Where I live, minimotos were The Thing this Christmas.
Now no child dares venture out without one for fear of being ridiculed so mercilessly they'd need years of psychoanalysis to recover even the tiniest sliver of self worth. And no loving parent wants that for their child.
So what do they do? Buy their precious tykes a machine that will carry them, helmetless, licenceless and insuranceless, at 60 km/h. Into walls. Or lampposts. Or, worst of all, into vintage beemers parked precariously outside frazzled journalists' houses.
The green space at the end of my road is habitually used as a makeshift speedway arena, whereon pre-pubescent daredevils gather for motorised gladiatorial combats, racing each other, skittling their mates and generally making a holy show of themselves. (Tsk, tsk, you say, where are their parents? Errm, see those harebrained halfwits skulling cider, egging them on and stemming the blood with Celtic jerseys? That'll be them. A noble bunch, each and every one.)
If only they'd obey the law and use their hairdryers of horror on private land, I wouldn't give a hoot. Sure, I'd feel sorry for the little guttersnipes if they crashed, but the adults? I'd positively welcome it. If grown men want to implant themselves into trees on toy motorbikes, fine by me. It'll improve the gene pool if nothing else.
They give me the shivers. (The minimotos, not the parents. Although, now you mention it...) Seeing a kid astride one of these tiny death machines makes me cringe in anticipation of impending horror. Like watching an epileptic juggling chainsaws, you just know it's going to end in tears. Lots of tears.
There are constant warnings to parents not to buy them - from cops, politicians etc - yet still they zoom off shelves.
While it's illegal to use them on roads, illegality doesn't come into play when children are concerned. Being under the age of criminal responsibility, it's not their fault. Remember that next time some eight-year-old reprobate slams a minimoto into the side of your car.
So the parents must be held responsible for their offspring's actions. But then, they presumably bought the things for their kids, so evidently they're not the responsible type, are they? I imagine they're of the breed that regards pit-bull terriers as ideal family pets.
One must assume they hold the law in the same high regard as they do their children. Legislation is futile when dealing with specimens such as these.
More drastic measures are called for.
The British, a race with a fine reputation for summary justice, have the right idea. They confiscate and crush minimotos when their owners get out of line. Acting the maggot? Have your minimoto wormed in front of you. Simple. A cretin could understand that. Which is handy, considering the clientele for this particular service.
British cops crushed around 600 in their latest clampdown. Now, I did a few calculations. Their population is roughly 20 times the size of ours, so pulverising 600 there equates to doing around 30 here.
Sounds meaningless enough. But you have to start somewhere. If the gardaí ever decide to adopt similar tactics, tell them to come to me.
I'd be more than happy to point them in the direction of their first 30 victims.