I WAS awakened at 7.30am the other day by what I thought was a bluebottle buzzing in my ear, only to realise it was a boy racer revving up in the quiet waters of suburbia.

It reminded me of being overtaken recently by a car at over 100mph as I joined the motorway at a steady 65.

I felt my testosterone rising and I was tempted, at first, to pursue, tailgating him, like Steve McQueen in ‘Bullitt’.

But the thought of a collision and spending five hours in police custody and having my shoe-laces removed in the event of self harming, deterred me.

After all, I rationalised, there might be a good reason for his driving so fast. He might be trying to get home before his diarrhoea splattered his car’s interior, or maybe he was trying to get missy to maternity before her waters broke.

I realise, like the study of quantum mechanics, it takes tremendous talent to press your right foot to the foot of an accelerator pedal, but nevertheless, suffice it to say, that on this occasion I was pacified by the words of the great guru, Jeremy Clarkson, who said, ‘Grasshopper, what do drummers and bluebottles have in common?’ ‘I don’t know master!’ ‘Both are born; both make a loud noise and then they die’.

JAMES MARTIN, Foulford Road,