I'm a mild-mannered man, not given easily to losing my temper. It'd take a lot to rile me. (What? Who told you different? That loodramawn, if 'tis a war he wants . . .) But there's one thing that reduces me to a quivering ball of unbridled loathing. In fact, I'm so livid writing this - through gritted fingers no less - that the cat has scuttled off to hide all the sharp objects in the house. If you poked me in the eye with a needle right now, you'd be drenched with boiling blood, writes Kilian Doyle
It's motorists on mobiles.
See, some gobdaw on his phone nearly killed me a few days ago. This clown in a Louth-registered Golf came tearing through a red light along the Grand Canal, almost broadsiding me as I was turning left from Rialto. Without taking the phone from his head, he swerved around the Bavarian Princess and skidded into traffic just in front of me.
I was fit to be tied. If the traffic hadn't been moving, I would have dragged him out of his bucket seat and fed him to the swans.
But it was. And he continued to natter as he drove along, oblivious to the seething ball of rage following behind him. Each syllable of inane blather was pushing me closer and closer to ramming him and his poxy car. I could see his face in his mirror - it was the type you'd never get tired of ironing.
Eventually we stopped at traffic lights. He was first in the queue, phone still glued to his temple. Lights went green, but he hadn't noticed. Here's my chance for some petty revenge.
I leaned on the horn. "Hah, that'll learn ya!" I exclaimed to myself, thrilled with my little victory.
What does he do? He lifts his left hand and gives me the fingers through the rear window. While still holding the phone to his fat head. And taking off - on a hill - at the same time.
Fingers, phone, handbrake, steering wheel? By my calculations, he'd have needed four arms for the manoeuvre. Either that or he had a midget on his lap.
He sped off over Harold's Cross Bridge. I probably shouldn't say this, but I was secretly hoping he'd crash straight into the canal. I would have enjoyed watching him try to use his mobile to call for help as he sank into the sludge.
I've never had much faith in Divine Justice, so I reckoned the Secular sort would have to do. I called the cops, gave them a description of the car, its driver and his heinous crime of getting on my nerves, and left them to it.
So, Golfboy, if you're reading, the game is up. I advise you to turn yourself in at the nearest Garda station with your hands up. All of them.
Newsflash: Gardaí in Co Louth have released the world-famous Siamese twins Mickey and Jack McArthur without charge following their arrest at their neo-Georgian mansion outside Termonfeckin last night.
The two, who gained international recognition for their prowess as a team of masseurs, were arrested on suspicion of involvement in an incident in Dublin last week in which an Irish Times journalist was severely irked, a crime that carries the maximum penalty of death by wedgie.
A Garda source said the twins were freed when it emerged they were employed to massage Bono's ego on the North American leg of the U2 tour at the time, only returning when they had to admit defeat early this week. "It's a Giant Squid that feller needs, not us," Mickey was quoted as saying.
Gardaí believe the motorist responsible may have fled the country, having been alerted to the fact he was being sought for questioning.
A source said Mr Kilian Doyle's public campaign for the apprehension of this dangerous criminal may have backfired on him. "You could say forearmed was forewarned," the source said. Mr Doyle could not be contacted for comment.