Naughty Me

I am very naughty.

There. Best to get the confession out of the way early, before the forecourt clergy arrive with their laminated commandments.

Because I collect cars from auction sites across the UK, and auction cars are almost invariably handed over with about five miles of fuel in them. Not five miles in the reassuring sense. Five miles in the “you may reach the petrol station, provided you do not use the heater, indicators or hope” sense. 

So the first stop is usually a fuel station. I have to fill the thing up, pay with a corporate fuel card, and enter the registration number. Which, naturally, I do not know. I may have owned the car for all of twelve minutes. It is not my cherished classic. It is just that day’s anonymous lump of depreciating metal, acquired from somewhere damp beside the M6.

So I take a photograph of the registration plate.

With my mobile phone.

On a fuel station forecourt.

Cue sharp intake of breath from the forecourt priesthood.

Yesterday, inevitably, I was challenged.

Not for smoking. Not for spilling fuel. Not for juggling naked flames beside Pump Four while humming Ride of the Valkyries. I was challenged because I took a photograph of a registration number, so that I could enter it correctly into the corporate fuel card system.

Being a difficult old sod, I attempted to argue the statistics.

This went exactly as well as you would expect.

I explained, calmly and no doubt with the radiant charm for which I am justly famous, that the probability of a modern mobile phone igniting petrol vapour during a quick number plate photograph is not zero in the philosophical sense, but is statistically indistinguishable from zero in the observed world. After decades of mobile phone use and billions of refuelling events, verified examples appear to be notable mainly for their absence.

Computer said no.

I tried the distinction between theoretical hazard and practical risk.

Computer said no.

I raised the point that static electricity, smoking, distraction and driving off with the hose attached are all rather more plausible hazards.

Computer said no, possibly louder.

And to be fair, the attendant was not there to debate Bayesian probability with a man collecting an auction car with four miles of fuel range and a corporate card requiring a registration number he had owned for less time than most people spend choosing a sandwich. The attendant had a rule. The rule had a sign. The sign had management behind it. And management, as we know, is where nuance goes to be laminated.

So I lost. Not because the statistics were wrong, but because statistics are of limited use against a laminated instruction. And this is where the signage becomes faintly comic.

My phone is banned because it contains a battery and is not certified for use in a hazardous atmosphere. Fair enough, as far as the paperwork goes. But the same forecourt admits petrol cars with hot exhausts, tired wiring, relays, fuel pumps and vapour. It admits diesels, hybrids, motorcycles, elderly vans, and EVs which are, among other things, huge mobile batteries with seats, cupholders and finance agreements.

That does not mean EVs are especially dangerous. They are not. It means the forecourt is already full of managed risks. My phone is not unique because it is uniquely dangerous. It is unique because it is visible, easy to ban, and easy to blame.

That, really, is the point. The “no phones” rule is not wholly irrational. Petrol vapour deserves respect. Forecourts are not risk-free environments. Simple rules have their place, particularly where hurried customers, volatile liquids and mild stupidity occasionally gather in the same postcode. But the rule treats all phone use as though it were the same act: making a call at the pump, scrolling Facebook while the tank overflows, or briefly photographing a number plate so that the payment system can be satisfied.

That is where risk management becomes pantomime. A tiny theoretical ignition risk is elevated into a visible behavioural offence, while larger and duller risks continue their quiet careers. It is not so much safety as administrative theatre, with unleaded.

So yes, I was naughty. I used my phone on a forecourt. I took a photograph of a registration plate. I argued probability. I was defeated by procedure. I shall continue to treat petrol vapour with respect. I shall not smoke, loiter, make calls, scroll Facebook, or behave like an idiot near the pumps. I shall take the registration photo I need, use the fuel card, fill the car, and leave. And, if challenged again, I shall probably apologise politely, because arguing Bayesian probability with a forecourt attendant in a hi-vis tabard is rarely the path to enlightenment.

But I remain unconvinced that my phone is the great danger here. The forecourt is already full of ignition sources on wheels. Mine just happens to fit in a pocket, take photographs, and offend the sign.

Somewhere in the great filing cabinet of modern Britain, a compliance box was ticked, a manager slept easier, and a tiny imaginary spark failed once again to ignite a petrol station.