Discretion can be the better part of parking

Emissions: Sometimes, I'm so amazed by the inherent goodness of people to their fellow men that my faith is as tight as a Texan teenager's chastity belt. Other times, it's been slid down over the shoes and kicked off into the bushes, never to be found again.

At the moment, it's the latter. The source of my plummeting regard for humanity is the latest evidence of the sleeveen nature of the Irish: the powers that be in Galway and Mayo are up in arms about at the burgeoning illegal use of bogus disabled stickers by able-bodied motorists.

There's uproar over the problem of drivers using out-of-date parking discs or ones they've no right to have in the first place. All so they don't have to walk the extra 20 feet to the shop to buy their copy of Cute Hoor's Monthly.

Many of the offenders are using old discs they once needed for family members no longer alive. Why not go the whole hog and prop up your dead granny in the passenger seat?

Mayo Independent TD Dr Jerry Cowley has raised the issue in the Dáil with Mr Brennan, demanding the "mean-spirited" culprits be bombarded with public opprobrium and a healthy lash of penalty points. "It's not asking too much that these reserved places be left free for people with disabilities, is it?" asked the deputy rhetorically.

The good doctor is presumably hoping to be re-elected, so must choose his words carefully to avoid being painted as a lunatic reactionary. I, on the other hand, have no such constraints - paint me any colour you like.

The Emissions verdict? Anyone caught at this heinous crime against decency should be dragged from their car into the town square, kicking and screaming if needs be, and wedgied. Repeatedly. That'll learn 'em.

Confronting people you suspect of this noxious activity can be perilous. Some months ago, I was tootling into my local supermarket, in front of which are three spaces reserved for disabled motorists. Two were already taken when a filthy white van screeched in at speed to the third.

Feeling full of self-righteous wrath, I trotted up to the driver on my high horse as he alighted with a skip. "You can't park here!" I intoned from above, pointing to the clearly displayed Disabled Parking Only sign. He scowled menacingly at me.

"Lads!" he shouted - the side door slid open to reveal three equally athletic types, one brandishing a single crutch. "I'll park where I bleedin' like bud," said the driver, an evil smirk breaking out across the pitbull's backside he was using as a face. "Me mate's crippled. If you don't want to join him, you'll feck off pronto."

Retiring gracefully, I steered my noble steed down from the moral high ground and onto to the bleak, windswept plateau of humiliation and confusion.

Maybe this gang of thugs had a genuine case, maybe they didn't. I wasn't going to risk calling their bluff. I didn't see myself being able to wedgie all four of them single-handedly and, more importantly, being clattered around a car park with a crutch isn't overly high on my list of things I'd like to achieve before I die. Maybe I should have more ambition?