HOW MANY PEOPLE DOES IT TAKE TO HAVE A RIOT?

I went for a night drive tonight; it's a thing I do sometimes to clear my head.

My car radio is stuck on Radio 4, which I'd forgotten, so instead of the sports and politics news, I was treated to a quiz between university lecturers and their students.

"In maritime and map-making," read the quiz master, "What is the significance of the Cornish town of Newlynn?"

I didn't know. Neither did the students or lecturers. Apparently it's the place where they define what 'sea level' is for the rest of the UK.

I drove on a bit. The quiz droned on about linguistics and the original name for Burkina Faso. Then, in a weird bit of synchronicity, I happened upon a scene by the pub.

There were three police cars, flashing. A crowd of young-ish people were milling across the road.

"According to English law," asked the quiz master, "How many people are required for an altercation to be considered a riot?"

The pub garden was full still. I saw faces illuminated in the blue light, amidst the bright yellow high-vis jackets of several police officers. A riot van, in perfect simultaneity, was parked further up the street beyond the hubbub.

"Is it three?" asked one of the professors.

"Three?" scoffed the quizmaster, "No, no, it's not three. Over to the students..."

On the other side of the road, a female police officer was remonstrating a small circle of what looked like very young people. There was a boy sitting upright on the floor, hands behind his back.

"21?" said one of the students.

"Oh too many," replied the host, "It's twelve. You need twelve people to start a riot."

I rumbled slowly over the mini-roundabout, while the crowd dispersed. I caught the eye of the young man sitting on the concrete, just a short way from the WPC. His face, even in that short split-second, was a mixture of remorse, fear, and defiance - just a kid really, who'd had no intention of being arrested, and was now in handcuffs on a balmy summer night.

There was a mum somewhere whose heart was about to be broken, maybe a dad who's going to feel more angry and helpless and ashamed than he knows how to handle. That's a heavy thought. It was all very heavy.

The quizmaster made some lame joke about politics and rioting that I can't remember, and then moved on to the next round on latin phraseology.

But the face of that boy was still in my mind, perhaps now being shuffled into the riot van. I didn't particularly think any of it was funny.