An early bird catches a nightmare

Emmissions: Here's a true story about a friend of ours who barely escaped injury some years ago in an freak "accident" in the West. This hapless gent was driving to work one pitch-black January morning, tootling along silently at a nominal speed down a road he had travelled almost daily for the past five years. He was effectively cruising on auto-pilot, he knew it that intimately.

But his warm, familiar glow soon transformed into a blind rage and overwhelming sense of betrayal at the hands of the route he loved. For, as he slowly rounded a particularly sharp left-hand corner, he came to an abrupt, bone-juddering halt in a great big dirty beast of a hole. Three feet deep, seven feet wide, its bottom black as the depths of hell, and, with jaws like Cerberus himself, this yoke practically swallowed him whole, hatchback and all.

Thankfully, our chum was largely unhurt, but his car was destroyed. Ten grand's worth of pride and joy transformed into a sordid car wrecker's grubby cheque for £500 in one fell swoop.

Okay, you say, we feel for the poor lad, but why are you telling us? Well, oddly enough for this column, there is a point.

For our friend was a victim of the dreaded night digger. This is a peculiar breed. To the nocturnal motorist unfortunate to disturb them at their evil task, they appear to be normal adult male humans, albeit bedecked in plastic hats and yellow reflective jackets with soggy cigarettes firmly implanted in their ruddy faces.

Be not fooled, we warn you. For they are the spawn of Satan himself, gravedigger fetishists whose sole purpose is providing somewhere for the Irish motorist to spill his misery into.

They feed off the fury and grow fat on the frustration their handiwork instils in us. This negative energy then manifests itself in an ever-expanding network of tailbacks and circular diversions. Lord knows, they might even be breeding down there.

Their calling cards litter our cities and countryside alike - One Lane Only signs, fluttering plastic tape and the ubiquitous cones are paraded in front of us like the taunting flags of a colonialist oppressor.

So daring have they become that they think nothing of flaunting their machine-hammers in daylight, savouring the palpible fear of the motorist who knows by looking at them that it will take him three hours to drive the six miles home from work that evening. As for their sacrilegious Sunday sessions, the mind boggles at their brazenness.

Now this is a column of complaint, not solution. We have no idea how to stop them, but stop them we must. The alternative is a country stripped of its tarmac, peopled by hole-digging zombie nightcrawlers. Now we don't want that, do we?

None of the above is even remotely true, and we refuse to accept responsibility for opinions expressed herein. Have pity on him - he's still getting over the trauma of driving into that bloody hole.