Recently, a mother of three appeared in court charged with “knowingly causing the deposit of controlled waste on land which did not have a waste management licence”.

So what do you suppose she’d done? Emptied a sack of polonium into a school playground? Urinated in Alistair Darling’s finger bowl?

Secreted 6,000 burning tyres in Bourton-on-the-Water? Nope. The “controlled waste” was an apple core that she had allegedly tossed out of her car window.

Shortly afterwards, two young men appeared in another court, accused of “interfering with a dolphin”. It turns out they’d been hitching a ride on it, in much the same way that tourists do on exotic holidays throughout the world. Then, the following day, the government announced that from now on Gordon Brown would be listening to every single telephone call you make.

Small wonder the Archbishop of Canterbury announced, just 24 hours later, that he wants sharia law in Britain. He was mocked, of course, but come on: Muslimism lets you throw apple cores onto the grass verge and swim with the dolphins and make telephone calls without having a Scottish man grunting and moaning in the background. Plus, we’d have the added benefit of being able to dismember shoplifters.

Also, though I have only a scant acquaintance with the Koran, I’m fairly certain it contains no call for motorists to be fleeced, hounded, mocked and, worst of all, held up on purpose by a swarm of power-crazed traffic wombles.

No one seems to have noticed this sinister new development. But think. In the olden days, when policemen had to have two O-levels, a moustache and a burning desire to join the freemasons, you never really heard of a motorway being closed.

Then, however, the state introduced a new breed of Diet One-Cal policeman called highway officers. We were told they’d race to the scene of an incident and clear up the mess as quickly as possible, thus allowing the real police to concentrate on more important things, like filling in forms and arresting people for interfering with dolphins.

It sounded a brilliant idea but, sadly, these new highwaymen have plainly been told that the most important thing, when attending the scene of a crash, is their own safety. Which means that their first reaction, always, no matter how trivial the accident, is to close the road.

Just listen to the Radio 2 traffic reports. One day last week the M40, the M5, the A34 and the M4 were all shut. Single-handedly, these mollycoddled imbeciles were bringing the whole country to a standstill.

That night, it got worse. A small hatchback had broken down in the middle lane of the A40, going into London. Now, in the not too distant past, other motorists would have got out of their cars and pushed the blockage to the side of the road. Not any more. Now, the traffic wombles come and cone off two lanes. And then they sit in their big 4x4, eating Mars bars, until the government-approved, safety-qualified removal-truck driver arrives.

When my wife crawled past at 6.30, they were just sitting there. When I drove past an hour later, having been stuck in a five-mile queue, they were still sitting there, and I’m afraid that, for the first time in 12 years, I lost my temper. They say a Dutch bargee can swear for two minutes without repetition or hesitation. I beat that easily.

I’d had enough. I’d had enough of people being charged for throwing apples out of their car windows, and speed cameras, and bus lanes, and those villages that have plant pots in the middle of the road. I’d had enough of bendy buses and the congestion charge, and sanctimonious beardies in Toyota Priuses getting away with it. I’d had enough of petrol at £1 a litre, and idiots saying that if we build more roads, people will only end up using them. I’d had enough of exhaust emission tables, and Al Gore and being asked to let the bus go first. I’d had enough of mobile CCTV cameras and Gordon Brown’s smile and photographs of polar bears on icebergs. And I took it all out on those fat, power-crazed wombles who’d shut two lanes of one of the busiest roads in the world because they were too obsessed with health and safety to get off their fat arses and push a broken-down hatchback out of the way.

There is some hope, however, in this broken and useless world and it comes in the shape of Renault’s Clio 197 Cup.

I’ve always liked hot hatchbacks and they make even more sense now than they did at the peak of their popularity 20 years ago. Back then, when you could smoke indoors and smack your children and the police were allowed to punch burglars in the face, they were a great way of enjoying what would turn out to be freedom’s last gasp.

Now, however, they do something even more important. In an overcontrolled, deliberately jammed world, they make going slowly fun.

Sure, a mid-engined car with 600 brake horsepower is always going to be a riot in the Yorkshire Dales, but you don’t live in the Yorkshire Dales. You live in Coalville and on your dismal crawl to work every morning all that power and finesse is, frankly, a complete waste of time and effort. You’d be better off putting your money in the dishwasher.

This is where the Clio Cup comes in. Its engine produces 197bhp, which is an awful lot from a normal-aspirated 2 litre but in a world of M5s, it’s a dribble; it’s less than half what AMG thinks is necessary to have a good time.

AMG is wrong. The people at Renault say the Clio Cup will accelerate from rest to 62mph in 6.9sec and that flat out in sixth it’ll sound and feel like you’re outrunning a Saturn V rocket. They also say it has Formula One-style aerodynamic aids and a compromise-free chassis designed to make every left at the lights feel like the Eau Rouge at Spa at 180.

If I may be permitted to liken the world of performance cars to Battersea dogs’ home, this is the eager little terrier, an ice-white scamp that whizzes about chasing its tail. Sure, it’s slower than a greyhound but, in theory, it should be a lot more fun.

The trouble is: it isn’t. While the engine is amazingly powerful for something the size of a toaster, it doesn’t translate into much in the way of fizz. What I want in a car like this is a rev counter that zooms up to the red line if you even so much as breathe on the throttle pedal. But in the Renault it feels like you’re trying to push a piano up a hill.

I like a hot hatch to deceive. I like to hurtle round a corner with blood spurting from my ears, and the engine doing 16m revolutions a minute, imagining that I’m doing 5,000mph. Whereas in fact I’m doing about six.

That doesn’t happen in the Renault. It’s not stodgy. It’s not an overcooked cauliflower, but neither is it a freshly picked radish. It just isn’t as exciting as the rear diffuser and preposterous roof-mounted spoiler would have you believe. And as a further droplet of wee in the soup, it has electric power steering, which is cheap to engineer but not quite as feelsome and lively as it should be.

Then there’s the interior. It’s not terrible. It’s not built with that usual French soggy dishcloth integrity. But really, it should have air-conditioning as standard.

I’m not saying the Clio Cup is a waste of wiring and metal. I like the way it looks and I like the seats a lot. I especially like the fact it costs less than £15,000. But it’s one of those cars that gives off the distinct impression it could be a little bit better.

I’d trade some of the power for a bit more whiz. Which funnily enough, is what I’d do with the traffic wombles as well.

Vital statistics

Model Renaultsport Clio 197 Cup

Engine 1998cc, four cylinders

Power 197bhp @ 7250rpm

Torque 158 lb ft @ 5550rpm

Transmission Six-speed manual

Fuel 0-62mph: 6.9sec

Acceleration 199g/km

Top speed 139mph

Price £14,995

Road tax band F (£205 for 12 months)

On sale Now

Rating

Verdict Lost its fizz

Explore Jeremy Clarkson

• Greatest Hits

• Good Car, Bad Car