Car-tharsis

The Blog that Shakes the Barley....

I've never exactly been the world's most confident driver. To say that I was a bit fearful to get behind the wheel of a car is an understatement to rank alongside Captain Birdseye's prosecution claiming the gaggle of underage boys locked inside the hull of his ship might look a bit fishy. It took me so long to finally take and pass my test that, while my peers would wind down the window of their brand new Audi Skirtlifter9000 to wink in a semi-threatening manner at passing honeys, I was relegated to waiting in the bus queue with wheezing grannies, shadow-eyed chavs and the criminally insane.

So leaving my flat to make the short yet terrifying journey into work, normally provides few surprises, just another 30 minutes in my never ending gigglesome highlight reel of almost-stalls, white knuckle gripping of the steering wheel and Chris Evans. I've come to terms with the fact that my daily foray into traffic raises my heart rate to rodent levels and as such probably counts as a workout and is perhaps the only thing keeping me out of the warm, juicy clutches of heart disease.

Today though was a special day. It seemed as though I had woken up on the day of the bi-annual festival that is "Optional Indicator" day, celebrated particularly vigorously on the outskirts of Coventry. I swear, it was like the frigging circus out there: car doors opening into heavy oncoming traffic, buses pulling into the middle of duel carriage ways, goons starring at me like zombies as they trundled the wrong way up one-way streets. All it needed was for Penelope Pitstop's garish pink motor to pull up alongside me at the lights, wind her window down and beg me to "heylp, heylp" her escape from Dick Dastardly. Dick bleedin Heads more like.

I admit that occasionally I drift off when waiting at a red (probably singing along to INXS, 10cc or other stock anthems from my cassette player which I refuse to update on account of its historical value - my car is like an episode of Time Team waiting to happen, only with fewer tedious small walls and more gummy bears) so that I might be a second or two slower to get away. I am a big enough man not to deny that I have occasionally flicked on the hazard lights when I'm undecided which way to turn. I can happily state for the record that I have once or twice been up past midnight smashing bits of jawbone free from the front bumper of my Polo with a broom, before heading to a local woodland with a shovel and a copy of "Home Eviscerater" (but that was only one school crossing and they really should have been quicker). However, no one can really say that I'm a bad driver. Even the so-called "victims" that have managed to retain speech wouldn't call me a bad driver.

Why is it then that day after day I find myself frowning deep gullies into my forehead and turning pale when out and about on my roads? All I want is a bit of fairness. Someone to let me out when I'm waiting, for people to remember that letting me know which way they're going might be useful information prior to me having to break so hard, blood flows through my tear ducts and my eyeballs splash against the inside of the windscreen like frogs popping in a microwave.

So when you're out and about tomorrow, pootling from point A to point B in your swanky Gogetamobile, occasionally turning your head to laugh at the peasants on the streets, please try to remember to take your eyes off them long enough to break in time, or flick on the indicator, or stop for a funeral procession, or slow down for wild geese, or not enter a yellow box if you can't get out, or indicate to switch lanes. Please try, or the next time you look in your mirror, you might find you're treated to the view of me, weeping whilst trying to maintain control of a tin box travelling at 70 miles per hour. As final sights go, it can't possibly be a good one.

Takecareandpleasedon'thavenightmares. xxx