In two-tier Britain, if you play by the rules, you get screwed - this proves it yet again

Surprise , surprise: the morally outraged, having yet again grasped the stick's wrong end, are out dishing vitriol and rage over the plight of Colin Salmon, he of bit-part Bond outings and appearances on East Enders and Prime Suspect. Contrary to the consensus, the actor did not land in court for the arguably minor misdemeanour of driving at 24mph in a 20mph zone.

In fact, he was hauled before the beak on an accumulation of offences that had racked up his penalty points, and was on the verge of being disqualified. He was there to plead: that as his family's sole breadwinner, his lung-diseased wife and previously cancer-stricken daughter depend on him, and that he has to drive to work assignments and hospital appointments because, having recently had a hip replacement, the 64-year-old would struggle on public transport.

The predictable uproar - the punitive war on motorists, the monstrous waste of time and taxpayers' money on petty court cases, our government's and police forces' inability to tackle serious, life-threatening crime because they are off chasing easy targets, and the blatant cash-grab by local councils who rake in millions in fines - is also a timely reminder that in two-tier Britain, you play by the rules and you get screwed.

Because while law-abiding, tax-paying citizens attend speed-awareness courses, pay our fines and live in fear of doing it again, legions of criminals are avoiding detection and punishment by purchasing illegal ghost number plates from suppliers who, get this, are registered with the DVLA. One in 15 vehicles are estimated to have been fitted with the camera-confounding ghost plates with 'four-dimensional' raised lettering.

The loophole, it is feared, is already being exploited by grooming gangs and risking national security by failing to apprehend terrorists. Who is investigating this? Where's the clampdown?

Since the gradual roll-out of London's 20mph limit that began in March 2020, I have been done three times. Caught at 21mph, I paid for a speed awareness course instead of incurring a fine and points. The second offence, also at 21mph, fetched the fine and points. Captured a third time, at 24 mph, I began to fear losing the licence I'd held for 40-plus years.

I drive about 1,500 miles each month, on work and other commitments and seeing my mother in her nursing home two hours away. I'm a cautious, vigilant driver. On motorways, which terrify me, I rarely exceed 60mph.

Why have I found it challenging to adhere to the lower legal limit? Because of intimidation from angry scofflaw drivers who tailgate, overtake and undertake precariously. I have one eye on them and other on the speed dial, while both should be focused on the road. I am now so nervous behind the wheel that I should probably give up driving. It's what they want, isn't it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Brigitte Bardot's funeral next Wednesday at Saint-Tropez's Notre-Dame-de-l'Assomption Catholic church will be live-streamed on screens in the ancient port and the town's Place des Lices market square. She will then be buried privately, in a cemetery overlooking the sea: reunited with her parents and first husband Roger Vadim, the writer and director who immortalised her in And God Created Woman.

If you're watching, look out for the lady once tipped to eclipse BB with her fragile, shimmering beauty. Marie-Jeanne, known as Mijanou, now 87, is Bardot's younger sister. A global movie career beckoned. But she shunned the public eye, not caring to bare her breasts, and suggesting they ask her sister to do it instead.

Some years ago, I visited Mijanou and her daughter Camille at the former's Saint-Tropez home. This serene woman clearly lived a charmed life. What was her secret? "Animals," she said. "Our beloved pets."

As my Express colleague Virginia Blackburn reflected earlier this week, Brigitte also preferred her animals to men. Did the sisters know something we don't?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I have squirmed at the venom spewed over Adam Peatty and Holly Ramsay. What a way for two young people to begin married life. However the Olympian and the celebrity chef's fair maid met is a matter for them.

Whatever has gone down between the warring clans, causing most of Adam's relatives to be disinvited and prompting outpourings of grief by his mother Caroline, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors.

Despite his hellraising image, I can attest first-hand, Holly's dad is a dude. Gordon and I have worked on some good assignments together. Our sons attended the same school. I once went to dinner with Frank Warren, the boxing promoter who is godfather to my lastborn, at Ramsay's Claridge's.

As we were ordering, the maitre d' approached to say that Mr Ramsay was on the line from Mauritius. Moments later, a £200 bottle of wine arrived. When Frank later asked for the bill, we were informed it was on the house. Speak as you find, raise your glass, keep your nose out of it and wish 'em well, I say.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I've long had a thing about the expressions people use in place of plain 'dead', as if avoiding the word somehow softens the blow. Whether our loved one has left us, snuffed it, slipped this mortal coil, gone to a better place, popped their clogs, kicked the bucket, bitten the dust or given up the ghost, is pushing up daisies six feet under or having a big sleep, they're still dead.

A Marie Curie poll a few years ago revealed some even weirder ones. Turning turtle, anyone? Wearing a wooden onesie?

Nearly 50% of us use 'passed away'. This euphemism infuriates me. Richard E Grant too. The actor who lost his wife Joan four years ago confides on a podcast: "No disrespect, but passed sounds like you've passed wind or passed out or fainted or whatever. No, you're dead. Passed is another thing."

Because of its implication that we have gone somewhere else? We won't know until we get there.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There has been an effusive bitching over Jool's Holland's annual Hootenanny on BBC Two. Viewers are divided. About half feel insulted that the pre-recorded show features an as-live countdown to the New Year.

They moan that it was lacklustre. The other half are raving. I caught up with some of it on iPlayer last night, specifically to watch Jessie J's performance of My Way, accompanied on piano by Jools. The breast cancer survivor was triumphant. All by myself in my little front room, I stood up, raised my mug of chamomile and applauded her. If ever an artist personified a song, Jessie J did. Watch her fly.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Astrologer Justin Toper, formerly of this newspaper, has repaired to the galaxy aged 67. The tousled blond was a quasi-rock star with a roving eye and a nicotine addiction. He would never be drawn on predictions, protesting that horoscopes are interpretations.

"Most readers know already what to expect of their day or week," he once confided. "All they are seeking is reassurance, that their world isn't about to cave in. If I can give them that, I'm worth my weight in gold." Yes he was.