Since I hit 50, my life has become a bad British sitcom, featuring me as the halfwit man-child character causing chaos while his family watches in horror.

I tried fishing, after a 40-year hiatus, and promptly fell in the river. An elderly neighbour who lives alone seemed down so I offered to do some manly-type chores, only to discover I’d ignited her dormant passions. This incident inspired my daughters to dub me "the Gilf Whisperer".

Recently, I’ve turned into one of those eccentrics you hear about who try to solve local crimes. I became obsessed – to the point of murderous mania – with catching "the Phantom Fly-Tipper".

I now believe fly-tippers should be horse-whipped in the town square. They’re weasels unfit for society. I’d remove their voting rights. In fact, I’d maroon them on an island filled with used nappies and medical swabs. For the rest of their lives. On bread and water. Dressed in rags.

It all started a month ago, when dozens of bags of rubbish appeared by a bank of trees that’s fenced off from the footpath opposite my house. Half the bags were filled with empty bottles of sugary drinks like Coke. The rest overflowed with household waste, including food.

Read more by Neil Mackay

It was disgusting. Hideous to behold. So I contacted East Renfrewshire council. Sorry sir, some jobsworth told me, there’s nothing we can do. That’s private land.

The land, it turns out, is owned by a rather swanky private club. I rang the private club and much to my surprise the manager turned out to be not just charming and polite but........

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