Irelands joyriders Problem
On the screen of the battered CRT television, a dramatic voiceover blared over grainy phone footage: “Ireland’s Joyriding Crisis: High-Speed Thrills and Local Terror!” The footage showed a stolen hatchback doing chaotic, smoke-filled donuts at a suburban junction while a group of teenagers filmed it on their phones.
Whizzley was practically leaning into the glass, his eyes wide, twirling a screwdriver between his fingers. “Look at the diff on that! Proper locked differential! Well, either that or he’s completely bald on the left rear, which is statistically more likely in—”
“It’s a disgrace is what it is,” rumbled Ye Olde Large Lad from his reinforced armchair, which creaked in direct proportion to his outrage. He gestured with a half-eaten pork pie. “In my day, if you stole a car, you at least had the decency to chop it for parts in silence. Filming it? Making a production out of it? Absolute madness.”
McFinleyyy scoffed, not looking up from his phone. “Madness? Lad, that video’s got three hundred thousand views on Thickk Togg. That’s pure ad revenue.
He’s probably making more off the algorithm than I am on my tax return.”
“And there lies the rot,” Sergeant Salty declared, slamming his cold mug onto the coffee table with the force of a gavel. The room fell dead silent. Salty adjusted his military-spec collar, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the glowing television screen. “It’s not just a policing failure, misfits. It’s an economic ecosystem! You want to stop the joyriding? You don’t just deploy spike strips—you hit the machine where it bleeds.”
Sarah and Susan, perched side-by-side on the sofa like a pair of hyper-coordinated tactical analysts, immediately opened their identical notebooks in unison.
“A waiting list of solutions, Sergeant?” Susan asked, pen poised.
“A strategic blueprint,” Salty snapped, pacing back and forth in front of the TV, completely blocking the screen. “Listen up. Here is the Salty Protocol for Eliminating Joyrider Shenanigans:”
* Demonetize Thickk Togg Content Immediately: “If a video features an unlicenced driver, a screeching tire, or a vehicle rotating in a circle exceeding forty-five degrees per second, Thickk Togg cuts the monetisation straight to zero. No clout, no cash, no incentive. You strip away the audience, you strip away the circus.”
* Mandatory Remote Engine Kill Switches: “Every car imported or manufactured gets an encrypted immobiliser linked directly to local dispatch. One button push from the station and click—the engine shuts down, the doors lock, and the vehicle safely coasts to a halt directly outside the nearest holding cell.”
* In-Car Parental & Platform Geo-Fencing: “Why can a sixteen-year-old start a engine in Dublin 15 at two in the morning? Biometric ignition! If the face scanner detects an unlicensed teenager or someone wearing a balaclava indoors, the vehicle plays high-decibel classical bagpipe music and refuses to shift out of Park.”
Community Restitution Work Programs: “You catch 'em? You don't just hand 'em a suspended sentence. You put 'em on pit-stop duty for the local ambulance fleet under Whizzley’s supervision. Let’s see how much they like cars after changing forty-eight heavy-duty lorry tires in the freezing rain.”
Winkz, who had been quietly lounging in the corner polishing his sunglasses, leaned forward with a slick grin. “I mean, the bagpipe immobiliser is a bit harsh, Sarge, even for joyriders. But the Thickk Togg ban? That actually makes sense. No views, no clout.”
“Precisely,” Salty barked, turning off the TV with a decisive click of the power button. “Problem solved. Now, who’s making a fresh pot of tea?”
Whizzley immediately stood up. “I’ll do it! But only if I can wire the kettle to trigger an alarm if anyone tries to pour it before it reaches exactly 98 degrees Celsius!”
Large Lad groaned.
“Just use the button, Whizzley. Just use the button.”
Comments
Post a Comment