Birvidik

It's a constant source of wonder, the human brain. It has a computing power of one exaflop (1 000 000 000 000 000 000 floating-point operations per second), a capacity not even approached by CPUs until this year when the new supercomputer, 'Frontier' came on line, but it's ofttimes as thick as a brick. Yup - the average slime mould could frequently give the human brain a good run for its money.

Evolution's crowning achievement shows a sad disregard for intellectual consistency. It disregards facts that question its already held beliefs, whilst simultaneously relishing, embellishing and propagating the most outrageously obvious fabrications just because they happen to accord with its distorted world view. This is particularly evident when there is conflict between statistics and anecdote. Anecdote wins hands down - every time.

A good example of this lies in attitudes to crime, and assessments of the prevalence of crime. The best source of data we have for this is the Crime Survey of England & Wales, and its findings are consistent: Crime has been steadily dropping for thirty years.

So how come 78% of the population are convinced that crime is rising?

Well, take your pick, but my money's on politicians and the media.

I'm just as bad. In fact, I'm worse because I should know better - I've got a basic understanding of stats. But that doesn't save me from the siren-song of availability bias. In common with most people, I have little personal experience of being on the receiving end of crime.

When we started cruising in 2006, I had been a victim of crime three times (OK - four times if you count being made to listen to Madonna butchering 'American Pie'), viz.

1976, Jersey - had a beat-up Moggie 1000 nicked.
1990, Jersey - had a 2,5 metre RIB vandalised.
1983, Seville - Smash & grab via the passenger window while stuck at traffic lights.

That's once every nineteen years, so I'm well overdue.

This is hardly surprising, though. For the last twenty years I've been a yottie, and cruising is generally a pretty crime-free lifestyle. This is partially because there isn't that much crime about anyway, but a major factor is the lack of anonymity. Pull into any anchorage, harbour, or wintering hole and you'll be surrounded by people you already know or already know about. Every yottie knows everything there is to know about every other yottie. Being anonymous gives a protective invisibility cloak that encourages the acting out of innate criminal tendencies. This doesn't work where everyone knows everyone else's business. So small villages, tightly-knit communities, closely related family groups and the like, tend to have little or no crime. Most of the places yotties visit fall into this category. No, if crime's what you're after, head for the anonymity of the nearest big city.

So anyway, there we were, moored in the middle of Lyon (population 2,308,818).

We had two guests on board with us, and we thought it would be interesting to show them around Lyon. It was great. Lots to do and see. Masses of entertainment, history, culture, restaurants, bars and a public transport system second only to Amsterdam's.

Like Amsterdam, Lyon has a well-designed, integrated public transport system interlinking trams, trains, buses, and a metro, all running under the aegis of a common ticketing system. As a result, it is extremely well patronised.

Absolutely heaving, in fact.

As are the ticketing machines.

This presents a potent mix of anonymous crowds, credit cards, and confused, bewildered tourists - an ideal hunting-ground for the hungry predator.

Our guards had already been lowered by the fact that thus far, everyone had been supremely courteous, helpful and friendly, so when we were approached by a smiling Frenchwoman, early twenties, smartly-dressed, immaculately coiffured, and she asked Chris, in accentless English, if he wanted any help, our antennae didn't even twitch.

At first.

Well, perhaps a bit.

Quite a lot, actually.

There was something about her manner, her demeanour that just didn't quite ring true. On top of which, the advice she was giving was wrong, so obviously wrong that even we knew it was wrong. Nevertheless, I complied. I inserted my card, tapped in the PIN, and put a totally unnecessary €6.80 top up on our tickets.
"In God's name, why?", you exclaim, incredulously (and with good reason). "Are you a complete imbecile or just a weak-willed, easily manipulated Jessie?"

Well, both. And neither. I plead Britishness. One just can't go around accusing complete strangers of being thieves. It would cause a scene. One might make an exception if one came upon a complete stranger in one's dining room loading one's family silver into a bag marked 'One's SWAG', especially if he/she/it/they was/were wearing a black mask and a rather démodé jumper with horizontal yellow and black stripes. Even then, though, one should remain cognisant of the possibility that he (/etc.) might be an actor getting into character or had lost his (/etc.) way en route to a fancy dress party.

In any case, I didn't really see that I had much to lose - €6.80 tops, so I went along with the charade for the sake of a quiet life. I didn't see the big picture, did I.
Our suspicions were confirmed when we got off the metro. I went to get my wallet from my pocket, and there it wasn't.

By pooling what we each saw, or heard, we managed to piece together their modus operandi. Yes, their. This was a four-man team, or, to give credit where it's due, a four-woman team. It comprised The Scout, The Dip and two Blockers
.
The Scout was our chic, anglophone, purported mentor. Her job was fivefold:

1 Identify a likely target, the older, frailer, more confused, pressurised, harassed and bewildered, the better. So naturally, she picked on me.

2 Discover where the target keeps his (/etc.) money and bank cards.

3 Shoulder surf the target and memorise the PIN that he (/etc.) punch(es) in the machine.

4 Identify the target to the others and inform the Dip of the whereabouts of his (/etc.) wallet/purse/moneybelt/pension book/Keister bag.

5 Persuade the target to enter the most crowded carriage.

The scout then hands over to the other members of the team. The blockers barge into the carriage as if in a minor altercation, pushing, shoving and jostling each other and, more importantly, the target, in this case, me. While the target is thrown off-guard and off-balance, and distracted by the jostling, the dip deftly removes his (/etc.) wallet. It was a very slick, well-oiled operation, carried out with practiced aplomb. I couldn't help but admire their confident chutzpah.

And I can't help but hope they rot in Hell.

Their haul was €185 in cash plus €600 in ATM withdrawals and a contactless-fuelled shopping frenzy taking in most of the posher emporia of downtown Lyon. That explains the scout's chic ensemble. They also showed good investment planning by stocking up on metro tickets to facilitate screwing the next poor unsuspecting bastard. Oh the irony!

It's not the money so much, though, it's the bloody inconvenience and hassle. Apart from the cash and two debit cards, the wallet also contained my driving licence, my European Health Card and, most galling of all, my all-singing, all-dancing, all bells & whistles, ultra-modern, super-whizzo-ace biometric Portuguese residency card. These things are like a cross between the Holy Grail and rocking-horse shit; They're extremely rare and the world and his wife spend all their waking hours trying to get one. The latest Government estimate puts the backlog of applications at 347,000 and climbing.

To all intents and purposes, possession of a biometric residencia neatly sidesteps virtually every regulatory consequence of Brexit. Every limitation, every restriction, every constraint disappears in a puff of bureaucratic smoke when you wave the magic card under the nose of even the most hard-boiled, anglophobic apparatchik.

And I had one. Or at least I used to have one. It took me eighteen months of threats, flattery and negotiations with Portuguese officialdom, but I got one. I could saunter insouciantly through EU immigration, smiling only slightly patronisingly at the Hoi Polloi glumly taking root in the 'Non EU' cattle pen. I could treat the 90/180 day rule with supercilious amusement.

Not now, I couldn't. Not now that the Fagin-bloody-ettes had taken it from my wallet, giggled sarcastically at the photograph and, ignorant of its immense value and totemic power, tossed it casually in the bunny bin.

Now, I am going to have to gird up my loins and once more line up to do battle with Portuguese bureaucracy. I should be about 347,459th in the queue.

So I've joined the 78%.

Crime!? - It's bloody everywhere. Streets ain't safe for decent people no more. The police are worse than bloody useless; they should spend their time stampin' aht this epidemic of pick-pocketin' an' knife-crime, not bustin' some law-abidin' Beemer driver after a session dahn the Whip & Gibbet.

What?! Crime's actually going dahn? Bullshit! Doan' gimme all that statistics arsewipe wiv its nancy-boy standard deviations and its poncy p-values and its bleedin' clever-bollocks regression coefficients.

An' you can stuff yer commie representative samples where the sun don't shine.

If you want to know abaht crime, Sunny-Jim, you wanna ask someone 'oose bin at the sharp end.

Someone like me.