Peter Viney's Blog

This is at least twelve years ago. I have no current issue with driving licence points.

There were about thirty of us, divided into two groups of fifteen. Our group had seven women. One woman remarked on the gender baance, and was told, ‘That’s because these are very minor infractions. Boy racers don’t get offered Driver Awareness Courses.’

‘So this is for people who really haven’t done anything wrong then,’ she said.

The course was at Winfrith in Dorset. I’d driven 35 miles to it. She had driven from Cornwall to protect her license. They deliberately made you go a long way in those days.

I had some doubts about our instructor as I thought short very tight 1960s style blue nylon football shorts were unusual garb for a cold winter’s day. We were told we could not discuss our offences, the purpose of the course was to make us safer drivers, not a platform for us to whinge about our original tickets. That seemed fair.

On the other hand, you could take three points, or do a Driver Awareness course or go to court. The last choice is to me unconstitutional, because if you  go to court, they threaten that the penalty may be doubled. Look at the Bill of Rights, 1688:

Right to petition. 

That it is the Right of the Subjects to petition the King and all Commitments and Prosecutions for such Petitioning are Illegal. 

The courts are ‘the king’ in this sense. You should not be penalised with double penalties for ‘petitioning the king.’

We had to own up to our offences first though, but no complaining, no justification. My confession was to 45 mph in a 40 mph limit, on a deserted, dry, well-lit urban dual carriageway at 1 a.m. I had just driven one hundred miles from London in 70 mph limits and slowed down too slowly.  I did not see any vehicle in any direction while I was on the Wessex Way through Bournemouth. The instructor frowned at deserted, dry and well-lit: ‘No justifications!’ 

I had dearly wanted to discuss the philosophical question of how an offence could be an offence if it was not observed by any human, nor impacted on any human, nor impacted on any person’s property. James Joyce’s Irish Christian Brothers would have punished sinful thoughts, or sinful actions when admitted in the Confessional, but I believe if there is no observer, no victim, and no damage, it cannot be an offence.  But this was not to be.

Most of us were the same, 4 or 5 mph above a speed limit.  Two were mobile phone users … this was a few years ago. Now they wouldn’t get the option of a course instead of licence points. Two men had been found speeding in 4-cab pick ups. It turns out that some models exceed a weight limit, which means they can only do 50 mph on single carriageways, not 60 mph. Then they can only do 60 mph on motorways, not 70 mph, Neither had been informed of these rules when they bought these large and ugly vehicles, and one had changed from a different and equally ugly make which was just below the limit while the replacement was just above. It was also not the instructor’s job to ask why they needed such vehicles. The terse, ‘I’m a tree surgeon,’ answered it. It was manifestly unfair for both, but ….

Our instructor smiled, ‘Ignorance of the law is …’

‘… no defence,’ we all intoned sullenly.

In fact, we were told, it was our legal and moral duty to buy and read a new edition of the Highway Code every year. We were each asked when we last read a copy. I wasn’t too bad on that. Less than twelve years. 1999, when my younger son took his driving test. Others in the room went back to 1965. Apparently the code has changed a bit. I wondered about the section on hand signals which I had practised so carefully in 1968. I certainly don’t remember any strictures against mobile phones when I took my test. 

We then had a round the class question on the make and model of our vehicles. He leapt on my answer for my SUV, ‘Phew! Nice car! What engine size?’

‘Three litre.’

He grinned, ‘Phew, I bet that goes like a bomb!’

I shrugged.

‘What’s the fastest you’ve got it up to?’

I stared at the floor.

‘How fast does it go?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never exceeded 70 mph,’ I said quickly.

This caused roars of laughter around the room. Our instructor was annoyed.

I redeemed myself on the film of cars on a motorway. We had to put our hands up when the car with a camera reached the minimum safe distance from the vehicle in front at various speeds. I was the only one who got it right every time. I was beaming with self-satisfaction. My wife is always telling me to close up to stop cars cutting in. Instantly someone said, ‘If you keep that distance, cars will cut in.’

‘No, no, Peter is absolutely right,’ said the instructor. We were all on first names. I felt I had been patted on the head and given a sweetie by the teacher.

Then I blotted my copybook. We were on braking distance, and slowing down at crossroads. I mentioned that all my kids whizz up to a junction and stamp hard on a brake at the white line, and that it particularly annoys me when people do that on side roads, because if you’re on the main road, you think they’re not going to stop.

‘So what do you do, Peter?’

‘I slow through the gears where possible. My dad used to sell tyres and brakes. He loved seeing people braking harshly. Tyre wear was good for business.’

‘Wrong!’ he barked. And just when I thought we were getting on so well, ‘With modern cars you just brake.’

‘Wait until it snows,’ I muttered, ‘All these kids will be sliding around crashing into each other.’

‘It rarely snows down here nowadays. You still brake.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘Rarely is not the same as “never”. Just wait until it does.’

‘I was a police driving instructor,’ he said, ‘Are you telling me that you know how to slow down on snow better than I do?’

‘Apparently so,’ I said. It just slipped out. Fortunately it was time for our free coffee and biscuits, and I slid out of the way to see if I could get a custard cream rather than a rich tea biscuit.

Eventually we got on to distractions. We were asked to list things that might distract the driver. His example was air fresheners hanging from the interior mirror. ‘Illegal,’ he declared to my amazement. Not that I’ve read The Highway Code this century.

‘What about St Christophers?’ said a man.

‘Illegal if they are in the driver’s potential field of vision, ‘Also family photographs.’

‘But not Madonnas,’ ventured the Polish man next to me.

‘Especially Madonnas,’ he was told. I wondered why they were especially distracting.

One burly chap (one caught speeding in his 4 cab) said ‘My wife’s a distraction. Back seat driver,’ to gruff laughs from the men and frosty glares from the women. 

‘That’s right!’ said our instructor. ‘Passengers should not speak. My wife does not speak while I’m driving.’

We digested that one in silence.

‘I’ve got three children under five,’ said a woman, ‘That’s really distracting.’

‘Children should not speak in cars.’ 

‘You mean children should be seen but not heard,’ I muttered.

‘Exactly.’

‘How do you stop a two year old talking, or yelling, or crying?’ said the mother of three, ‘Have you got any kids?’

‘Two,’ he replied, ‘My children were never allowed to speak. The driver must concentrate fully on the road.’ He warmed to his subject, ‘And if I were Minister of Transport, I’d ban radios and music in cars. Completely.’

I wanted to ask if he were a member of the Taliban, but we all needed his official stamp at the end of the day to avoid three points on our licences, so silent acquiescence seemed the best policy.

‘You don’t ever listen to music or stories in the car?’ said the young mother, ‘That’s the only thing that keeps my kids quiet.’

We all nodded.

‘Or sing-alongs,’ said a man, ‘My kids all sing along to music.’

‘No,’ our instructor went on, ‘When my kids were young we never had a radio or CD player in the car.’

‘You can’t buy a car without entertainment systems now,’ I said, ‘And audio books keep me alert on long night drives.’

‘I’d stop all in car entertainment systems. Yes, we used to drive two days to the north of Scotland for our holidays, with both kids in the car, and no one ever spoke, we had no distracting radio, and I focussed entirely 100% on driving.’ He was misty-eyed at the reminiscence.

‘It must have been a real fun holiday for your kids,’ said the mother of three. 

We were wrong to have applauded her for quite so long, I guess. Still we all got our official stamps. And I’m sure I’ve driven more safely since the course.