OK. I'm driving in a transit van through Penarth in Wales on a Sunday morning. As I come around the corner heading up a gradual hill a scene unfolds before me in a nano-second. There's this old girl, in her 60's and fat; really fat, sort of beach ball with fingers. And she is running (waddling) up the foot path with her little arms out in front of her. She is clearly distressed. About 50 meters ahead is an old bloke, legging it off up the street at full throttle. He's carrying a womans bag. 50 meters in front of him is a round-about. In a further nano-second I estimate that the speed of van to the distance to round-about will give me sufficient time to quickly change into Superman outfit in time to intercept bag-snatcher at round-about before sizable crowd of cheering on lookers. Images of tomorrows Echo headlines plus summons to London to meet Betty shoot through my mind. After executing stylish turn with screeching brake in transit van, cool as cat shit I step from vehicle and stand before seriously out of breath thieving tw*t. As rapidly growing crowd gathers I say in loud voioce (to get max effect) "Right you thieving b*rstard, got you. You know it's scum like you that are fcuking up society for the rest of us". The thief stands there legs apart bending over trying to get his breath and trying to talk. Nothing but wheazing and phlem coming out. Points to bag, points back to beachball and points to sky. I'm holding him tight by the arm as he's trying to get past me but I'm not letting him go. About now the beachball arrives and we have a wheazing and waving the arms competition. Lots of opening of mouths but no words only distressed noise. A really big crowd now surrounds us and men have dispatched kids for drink and crisps. "It's alright missus I've got the b*rstard who took your bag". She now grabs the bag and starts swinging and hitting me with it. Still no words but she quickly warms to the task and is landing a steady rain of blows. Impressive amount of staminer really. Granddad now joins in kicking me in the shins. Crowd burst into laughter and cheering. "what the fukc are you doing you mad cow". The crowd fall silent. At last words. "The bus, the bus", pointing to the bus disappearing down the road on its last run to Chepstow for the day. Mr and Mrs Beachball, having recovered some breath give me a parting flurry of kicks and punches. Crowd collapse into fits and some bloke comes over to drop coins at my feet. I slink away like a mongrel dog.