Who among you remembers the lockhard men? asks Kilian Doyle
Once as common on the streets of night-time Dublin as drunken teenagers, they're now thinner on the ground than lobsters in the Kalahari.
Granted, the odd one or two still crawl out from under their rocks for big matches in Croker, donning their battered peaked hats, rolling up their Heralds and trying to cajole money out of hapless country folk unversed in the ways of the city.
But, the never-say-die culchie-vultures aside, the lockhards are an extinct breed, made obsolete by a combination of parking meters, multi-storey car parks, drink driving laws and, most importantly, people learning to tell them to get stuffed.
They've been consigned to the dungheap of history like bus conductors and milkmen. Unlike bus conductors and milkmen, I'll shed not a tear for them. Useful as a chocolate fireguard, the whole shower.
I first came into contact with one of these vile specimens when venturing into the Big Smoke with my Dad. Trying to find a parking space off Nassau Street in which to squeeze his great boat of a Citroën DS, we were approached by a booze-sodden gouger sporting what he evidently imagined was an authority-endowing cap and a coat that looked and smelled like it was made of purest woven mildew.
"Howaya mister," said he through a haze of Sweet Afton smoke, gesturing proprietarily over a vacant space. "In here, bud. She'll be grand, boss, I'll keep an eye on her." My father stared contemptuously at him. The space was no wider than the crack of dawn.
"Arra, whatarye lookin' like dat fer? Ye could gerra bleedin' bus in dere, c'mon, back her up, back her up, lock hard, lock hard . . ."
"Dad, is he allowed do that?" I asked my father as we walked off after he'd grudgingly slipped a few coins into the blackmailer's grubby paw. "Why didn't you just tell him to get lost?"
My Dad sighed wearily. "Because, son, we'd have no wing mirrors when we got back," he explained.
"Why? Is it because he won't protect the car if you don't pay and then the bad boys will come and take them?" said I, with the wide-eyed naivety of a mollycoddled eight-year-old. "Sheesh, boy, your driveway doesn't quite reach the road, does it?"
Thus died my childhood innocence. I forevermore viewed the lockhards as deluded street-prowling sleeveens, thinking they were passing themselves off as harmless aul' Dublin characters, oblivious to the fact that everyone knew them for the extorting scoundrels they actually were.
Most were so stupid they'd lose an argument with a door handle. Still, even though their brains were only running on three cylinders, they had you by the bumpers. Everyone knew it was pay up or suffer the consequences.
The balance of payment was delicate. The amount you paid directly correlated with the amount of damage they'd do to your car. Underpay, and they'd accidentally scoop a hole out of your paintwork with a penknife or whip off your windscreen wipers with a theatrical flourish as a warning to passing motorists. Overpay, they'd let the air out of your tyres to deflate your ego before retiring to the boozer. Get it just right and they'd simply stumble off, leaving your car to the mercy of the joyriders.
Gardaí turned a blind eye to their antics, left them to carve up their territories among themselves. Prime spots were guarded fiercely. I once had the singular joy of witnessing a fight between two lockhards near St Stephen's Green. A young usurper had evidently encroached on another's turf and fireworks flew.
The invadee grabbed the interloper by the neck, and started throttling him. "Lock hard, lock hard," taunted the swiftly-assembled gaggle of onlookers. The lockhards were not amused. I, on the other hand, was in stitches.
I was about to offer to mind their caps for a quid a pop while they tussled when some wag beat me to it. Bad move. They turned on him as one and parked him in a dustbin. I imagine he's still got the scars.