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Eleven years ago I wrote a column for the MEN. I explained how I lost it on a garage forecourt. To my shame my wife and three kids were with me at the time.

The spark for such an embarrassing episode of clenched fists and football terrace plain English was a prat in a 4x4. Slumped in the driver's seat, he tossed cartons of takeaway trash out of the window of his custom-built-for-a-jerk city tractor. Next came a cigarette packet.

My gait was more Victor Meldrew than gunslinger Clint as I approached his car. To the relief of my family, common sense kicked in. I knelt next to his car, picked up the rubbish, smiled at him, and then winked just to unnerve him. I then put it in the bin as he watched.

As I lamented at the time compared to gun-running, supplying class A drugs, an

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