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James May / Jeremy Clarkson Helmet Bet

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I have highlighted the pertinent bit but whole story copied here for context: James May: One helmet law for all I've made a bet with Jeremy Clarkson. Should I be arrested? Telegraph.co.uk By James May Published: 1:39PM BST 03 Oct 2008 As I may have said before, I am absolutely convinced that society functions better if it strives for as few laws as possible. I have therefore decided that in May's Britain there will be only one. "The Law" will be just that. That law will state, quite simply, don't be a prat. Remarkably, this covers everything that actually matters and, with the intercession of a reasonably minded jury, will ensure that the law remains a reflection of the will of the people, which is as it should be. So: evading your income tax makes you a prat, because paying tax is a civilising duty and one from which everyone benefits out of all proportion to the amount of money dished out. Try organising your own bin collection, emergency services, hospital treatment, street lighting, sewage disposal, road repairs, passport controls and air force with the paltry pile of cash you hand over every year, and you'll see what I mean. Driving like a lunatic through a town centre makes you a prat as well. That much is obvious to 95 per cent of the population, so it's against the law. If contested, it will go to the courts. After hearing the evidence the judge will simply turn to the jury and say, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, has this man been a prat?" If the foreman answers, "Yes, your honour, not half," then he will be banged to rights. At a lesser level, serving a trio of connoisseur sausages on a bed of mustard-mashed maris piper and drizzled with mouth-watering jus, in a bowl, when you could have knocked up bangers 'n' mash on a plate, is prattish and therefore will bring the wrath of Moses upon your head. Obviously, anyone convicted of extreme prattishness, such as rape or murder, will spend a lifetime breaking rocks. In the case of lesser lifestyle offences, such as saying "basically" at the beginning of a sentence, it will be up to the jury to decide how long you will spend locked in a room listening to the Archers omnibus on a looped tape, very loud. Easy. Meanwhile, however, in the real world, there are so many new laws being created that ignorance of them is beginning to seem like a fair defence. Recently, I heard of one that dictates when Farmer Giles is allowed to harvest his crops. Why? It's his look-out. This, finally, brings me to motorcycle helmet law, which has been hotly debated since it became compulsory to wear one in 1973. It must be acknowledged that wearing a crash helmet on a motorcycle is good sense. I always wear mine, and, with the exception of the odd trundle up and down the road outside my house to check that I really have cocked-up the carburettor settings on my Honda 90, I've never ridden a bike without one. But should I have to wear one, and am I being a prat if I don't? It's my head, it's the place wherein I exist, and therefore it is surely my business. No carefully selected jury in May's Britain would convict. I'm also curious to know how it feels to ride a bike with no lid on, just the once, so I can at least have an informed opinion on it. Encouragingly, helmet law seems not to be taken too seriously by the authorities. I always imagined that riding barehead would attract a massive fine, thousands of points, a ban, rehabilitation and probably compulsory extra training on a Sunday. Turns out, however, that it is merely subject to a fixed penalty notice of £30, like failing to wear a seatbelt. So at least I could afford to give it a go. All of this, inevitably, has led to a bet. Jeremy Clarkson reckons I wouldn't get more than 100 helmetless yards in Brown's Britain before I was run in by the rozzers. But I'm not so sure. Eventually we shook hands on a £100 wager that I can or can't ride from my house in Hammersmith to the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus, in the West End, lid free. That's a distance of 4.8 miles. The rules state that I must travel during the day and by the most exposed route, on the Triumph Speed Triple. Clarkson to pay my fine from his winnings if I'm apprehended. And in case you imagine that this is a mere dare rather than a serious avenue of enquiry, it is actually something of a test of policing priorities. If I'm busted for not having a bone-dome, that must mean they've caught the bloke who nicked my television four years ago. Hoorah! To be continued

As I may have said before, I am absolutely convinced that society functions better if it strives for as few laws as possible. I have therefore decided that in May's Britain there will be only one. "The Law" will be just that. 
That law will state, quite simply, don't be a prat. Remarkably, this covers everything that actually matters and, with the intercession of a reasonably minded jury, will ensure that the law remains a reflection of the will of the people, which is as it should be.

So: evading your income tax makes you a prat, because paying tax is a civilising duty and one from which everyone benefits out of all proportion to the amount of money dished out. Try organising your own bin collection, emergency services, hospital treatment, street lighting, sewage disposal, road repairs, passport controls and air force with the paltry pile of cash you hand over every year, and you'll see what I mean. 
Driving like a lunatic through a town centre makes you a prat as well. That much is obvious to 95 per cent of the population, so it's against the law. If contested, it will go to the courts. After hearing the evidence the judge will simply turn to the jury and say, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, has this man been a prat?" If the foreman answers, "Yes, your honour, not half," then he will be banged to rights. 
At a lesser level, serving a trio of connoisseur sausages on a bed of mustard-mashed maris piper and drizzled with mouth-watering jus, in a bowl, when you could have knocked up bangers 'n' mash on a plate, is prattish and therefore will bring the wrath of Moses upon your head. 
Obviously, anyone convicted of extreme prattishness, such as rape or murder, will spend a lifetime breaking rocks. In the case of lesser lifestyle offences, such as saying "basically" at the beginning of a sentence, it will be up to the jury to decide how long you will spend locked in a room listening to the Archers omnibus on a looped tape, very loud. Easy. 
Meanwhile, however, in the real world, there are so many new laws being created that ignorance of them is beginning to seem like a fair defence. Recently, I heard of one that dictates when Farmer Giles is allowed to harvest his crops. Why? It's his look-out. 
This, finally, brings me to motorcycle helmet law, which has been hotly debated since it became compulsory to wear one in 1973. It must be acknowledged that wearing a crash helmet on a motorcycle is good sense. I always wear mine, and, with the exception of the odd trundle up and down the road outside my house to check that I really have cocked-up the carburettor settings on my Honda 90, I've never ridden a bike without one. 
But should I have to wear one, and am I being a prat if I don't? It's my head, it's the place wherein I exist, and therefore it is surely my business. No carefully selected jury in May's Britain would convict. I'm also curious to know how it feels to ride a bike with no lid on, just the once, so I can at least have an informed opinion on it. 
Encouragingly, helmet law seems not to be taken too seriously by the authorities. I always imagined that riding barehead would attract a massive fine, thousands of points, a ban, rehabilitation and probably compulsory extra training on a Sunday. Turns out, however, that it is merely subject to a fixed penalty notice of £30, like failing to wear a seatbelt. So at least I could afford to give it a go. 
All of this, inevitably, has led to a bet. Jeremy Clarkson reckons I wouldn't get more than 100 helmetless yards in Brown's Britain before I was run in by the rozzers. But I'm not so sure. Eventually we shook hands on a £100 wager that I can or can't ride from my house in Hammersmith to the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus, in the West End, lid free. That's a distance of 4.8 miles. 
The rules state that I must travel during the day and by the most exposed route, on the Triumph Speed Triple. Clarkson to pay my fine from his winnings if I'm apprehended. 
And in case you imagine that this is a mere dare rather than a serious avenue of enquiry, it is actually something of a test of policing priorities. If I'm busted for not having a bone-dome, that must mean they've caught the bloke who nicked my television four years ago. Hoorah! 
To be continued

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