Traffic warden
The traffic warden is at the very bottom of the food chain in the menagerie that is metropolitan government. The job of the traffic warden is to deal with the "honour system" of municipal car parking, given the large majority of car owners who have no honour.
The traffic warden wears a policeman-like uniform with a badge, to emphasise the fact that paying a fee to park alongside the street is the law. However, his true business is not order but revenue-raising; his presence either cajoling the car owner to pay a parking fee or, worst-case, commanding them to pay a much higher fee stated on a citation. In some jurisdictions, the traffic warden may even carry a service weapon. There is no aspect of checking windscreens or writing citations that requires him to be armed; however, if you are wearing a uniform that suggests you have a gun, it behooves you to have one. Happily, the ceremonial nature of this weapon means that the traffic warden does not need actual training in its use.
History[edit]
Traffic wardens are the world's newest species. They recently evolved from a life form called the "meter maid" (pictured). This means they don’t really have a history. Nor a future, as they are being extincted by Automated Warden Cameras (AWCs), despite having less common sense than traffic wardens and an apparent excess of testosterone.
Parking the car to satisfy the traffic warden[edit]
It is vital to park your car in such a way that a traffic warden cannot lay a guilt trip on you, scream at you, or mortify you by writing an actual citation. Outwardly, wardens are sticklers for chapter and verse of traffic law. In reality, it breaks the monotony of their day if you ignore the law and do the exact opposite.
Step 1[edit]
Slowly and subtly guide the vehicle into the parking space. Look out of the window for the painted lines that surround the space. The vehicle must not touch any of the lines. Smart drivers often carry cans of black and yellow paint in their vehicles so they can simply park where they like and paint the appropriate markings once in place.
Step 2[edit]
Every line by the side of the road must end with a buffer to be legal. If you find a parking space without a buffer, make a note of it. This fact, when the traffic warden approaches and splits hairs with you over your crap job of parking, will let you play his game and throw it right back at him. You will not win the argument but the bored traffic warden will be so delighted to meet a fellow anal-retentive that he will decline to write the citation.
Step 3[edit]
If you are parked illegally, remain in your car. The traffic warden cannot cite you because, technically, you are not "parked" but merely "stopped" or "standing". If there is doubt, keep your motor running (except where there is a law against that as well). If you must run into a shop to get something, keep your passengers in the car, and the same will apply to them, especially if you put one of them behind the steering wheel. (If her twelve-year-old son volunteers, thank him but decline.)
Demonstrating the theory[edit]
I’m in Islington in London today, ready to park four cars in some of its most notorious ticket spots: Fonthill Road, Upper Street, and Drayton Park. I’m using three similar cars, differing only by their colour, and a cool silver Porsche. Near each car, one close-up CCTV camera will make a movie of all the thrilling and surely gold-medal-winning action. Now let's wait for a traffic warden and cause a total unhinged riot on scene!
The red car[edit]
Fonthill Road is most famous in London for its fashionable shops and shopping centres. It’s also a hotspot for traffic idiots and thus ground zero for wardens. My companion in the red car pays for fifteen minutes and leaves the car for some tony shopping whilst I hide in the back seat.
Ah! Two traffic wardens, who saw him get out of the car, arrive to patrol and wait. Oh dear — sixteen minutes have passed, one of the wardens is checking his watch and writing the number plate in his pad. Now, shouting — My companion returns, after seventeen minutes. He’s appealing for a cancellation for two reasons: The warden has only given two minutes of grace, and he's officially disqualified from issuing a ticket because someone (me) was present in the car at the time. But because all four cars have Morocco-dark window tinting, he didn’t see me inside (though he might have, if he had looked).
The cool, expensive Porsche[edit]
My companion parks his Porsche on Drayton Park near the Arsenal F.C. football ground within the box. Actually, the front-right wheel is slightly outside. But that doesn’t matter, because the yellow line it’s on is not buffered. Again we buy a ticket for fifteen minutes' parking. After twenty minutes of watching from a distance, two traffic wardens arrive. They glance at the ticket but don’t look at the number plate. Instead, one of them barks into a mobile radio. Ten minutes later, a removal van arrives. We are shocked: No grace period, no warning, nothing of the kind. So we push both of the traffic wardens onto the ground and immediately drive off, before they can even record our number plates. We quickly drive around the corner onto Gillespie Road, with the wardens on the ground in a daze.
The green car[edit]
Upper Street, near Islington Green, is home to many bars and restaurants. My green car is parked there, and it has the same number plate as my red car. That’s because it is the same car. This time, however, I haven’t bought a ticket. Ten minutes later, a traffic warden arrives. He looks at the windscreen, but sees no ticket. Then, he looks at the number plate and gleams a bright smile of cunning delight. But he does not issue a ticket: he calls his van over with ‘Islington’ posted all over the framework and takes a clamp out. Then, he fiddles around in the front seats of the van about something, giving me time to secretly nick a clamp out of the back. By the time he sees me I have installed one onto his back wheel! After I finish and pocket the key, he sees me walking away. “Hey! What do think you’re doin’? Well, I’ll tell you sumfink. It ain’t funny. Hey! Come back here you idiot and take that thing off.” I look at him dirty, get in the car, and pull away. Half an hour later, it starts to rain, and the busy streets begin to empty. I return two and a half hours later and place the keys on his bonnet, then leave.
The blue car[edit]
Nothing happens. I had accidentally parked over the border in Hackney, where the wardens are sensible. That concludes our laboratory.