A couple of months ago, after an irritable match in the pretty town of Headcorn, the manager of the home team decided to upbraid me after the game for sins real and imagined. His team had won, but my decision to book his goalkeeper (and son) after the match because of his shoutd dissent enraged him no end. Face a foot or so away from mine, he launched into a stream of invective, finally calling me a f***ing Gatso.
A Gatso? I didn't think it was the right time and place to say, "excuse me my good man, I'm a bit of a wordsmith, having dabbled in journalism for 25 years, but what on earth is a Gatso?" So I went home mystified, wondering if I was out of touch with modern slang and insults, but No, no-one I spoke to had ever heard of the word.
But today, there I was, leafing casually through the Sunday Mirror in the office and reading about driving offences when suddenly, up pops the word, A Gatso. It's a speed camera, the kind that snags drivers like me hammering into work in London.
But why am I a speed camera? Is it because speed cameras are unfair on your average white van driver? This part still mystifies me, I have to confess, but we're making progress!
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