IT isn’t often I’m disappointed with my fellow males. But on Sunday quite a few of ‘em, car drivers all, made me heartily ashamed.

The scene? The roundabout at the junction of Old Road, Morrell Avenue and Divinity Road. The occasion? Oxford’s first half marathon and I had volunteered to be a marshal at what was the halfway point.

The route was along Old Road, across the top of Divinity Road and down Morrell Avenue. The only danger to competitors was from drivers – there was no blanket ban on vehicles – wanting to take the Divinity Road turn while runners were crossing.

My job and that of two fellow marshals was to ask motorists to slow down, via a hand signal and a smile.

However, the reaction of a number of drivers – all of them men – was offensive and at times downright vulgar. Nor was the abuse from young speed merchants. It came from middle and late middle-aged men.

I won’t quote them. Readers will have gathered the gist of it.

What I can say is that no driver was held up for more than 10 seconds. Most stops were under five seconds and by this halfway point the runners were already spread out. But it seemed even this was too long a wait.

The women drivers? Sweetness and light from them all. Some even thanked me!

* DON’T let anyone tell you all theatrical celebrities have an easy time. Take Samantha Womack and Paulo Szot, who are starring in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s South Pacific at the Barbican. The show will be at the New Theatre over the Christmas period.

On Tuesday afternoon they were at the Oxford theatre, giving a preview of the show to an invited audience. We would gladly have kept them much longer but they had to be back in London for the evening show.

And we all know what afternoon M40 traffic can be like...

* WATCHING highlights of football matches this week reminded me again of something quite brief written more than 40 years ago by my old friend, the highly-talented Peter Sykes, former editor of The Oxford Times, whose funeral I attended on Monday.

Strange how something can survive both the years and the shortening of memory.

In those days he wrote a weekly television review. It was always witty and written in his distinctive deadpan style.

He wrote: “As we have to watch edited highlights on Match of the Day, why can’t they edit out the spitting?”

Several players lubricated the pitch over the course of the match. I couldn’t help but smile.

“They’re still at it, Peter,” I said out loud, before toasting the memory of my fellow Tyke in a glass of good Yorkshire bitter.