[LeRoux Strydom]

In the Irish hamlet of Carrick-on-Suir, where drunk driving is considered a sport, it was nearly midnight and closing time at the local tavern.

Lodged deep in the shadows of the car park, a policeman in a patrol car observed a man leaving the bar in such disrepair he could barely walk. He stumbled around the park, trying his keys on several cars before finding his own and falling into the driver's seat.

As he lay sprawled across the seat, other patrons left the bar and drove off. Finally, he righted himself and started the car. There followed a switching on and off of wipers (on a fine dry night), flicking of indicators and tooting of the hooter before he found the lights switch.

The vehicle lurched forward a metre, reversed, then stalled. The last patrons emerged, ignored the drunk and left.

At last he managed to edge out of the car park and motor slowly down the lane. The cop rumbled after him, flashed his lights and pulled the man over.

But the Breathalyser test showed no evidence of alcohol consumption at all.

"I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station, sir, this Breathalyser equipment must be broken," said the nonplussed patrolman.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," replied the man cheerfully. "Tonight I was the designated decoy."