Show me a personal plate, and I’ll show you a humourless prick driving a blacked-out people carrier with the road sense of a blind hedgehog. That was certainly my recent experience while attempting to pierce the jam packed multi-lane defences of the A3, and escape from the South-East.
Before I rant, first assumptions; 1) the deep window tint is to protect precious Crispin and Jacasta from any possible view of poor people. Unless the BMW X6 has become the transport of choice for crime syndicates – whisking the big boss from deal to deal. Winchester Mafia? No, that doesn’t sound right at all.
2) Anywhere South of Reading and East of Heathrow, traffic ground rules specify that once you have had a SINGLE flick of an indicator, this delivers a God-Smiting right to stuff your child-killing nose into any lane of your choosing. Regardless of whether there is something in it already. And because you are terribly important, the Highways Agency have laid on an extra lane for you, normally reserved for Police, accidents and fly tipping.
3) Tail-Gating is a mandatory right of citizenship of Shitsville, Berkshire. If the bloke in front can see ANY of your car south of the windscreen, there is damn well room for another fuck-you-I’m-in-a-hurry fatbloke cage in there.
Okay with that? I’m not really nor the kind of terrifyingly insane mindset that would spend forty grand on a bastard hybrid of the Batmobile and a Military hummer. Especially once it’s stuffed it’s vulgar snout in a space which I’d carelessly been minding my own business a second or so before. The A3 wasn’t moving but this cheeky fucker was, barging his way to choir practice, or Pink Gins at the Snotnose-fuckworthys or – and I’m really not buying this – racing to dump a body in the never ending roadworks.
And because I’m a year up the line from driving like a total twat, I resisted for almost seconds before cracking in the familiar way. Before I could say “leave ‘im ‘es not worf it“, I’m gunning the engine, tailgating like a local and flashing everything I had in my motorised armoury*. We jousted up the slip road with his audacious 4 lane sweep from right to left leaving me somewhat positionally embarrassed.
Except that’s where I was going for real whereas he’d merely broken a few hundred traffic rules to save four seconds. A nifty double bluff saw me pin him to the left hand lane, and a refusal to acknowledge the mighty right of his clicking indicator saw windows drawn at dusk.
I had a perfectly articulate argument locked and loaded; to whit “Why behave like that? If you’ve got kids in there, what kind of example is that setting? Where does it get you? I mean, just chill out? If you’d asked nicely I’d have let you out, but you were so damn arrogant and rude.”
One look at his apoplectic, chubby face informed this was an arse masquerading as the other end who never listened because that’s time when he could be talking. Instead a quick internal edit summarised my position thus “Oi SmallDick, stupid car, stupid driving, go fuck yourself. Oh and what kind of sodding name is DA478W? What a wanker!” His face/arse was a picture, I so wish some presence of mind would have had my camera in my non gesticulating hand.
But it felt way better than it should. I swiftly declutched and sped off (verging on the dishonest there, the love truck manages nothing quicker than a swiftish trundle) programming the SatNav with the little known “Rejavik Alternative” designed to remove a county – as swiftly as possible- from your personal geography . Even it it means driving over the Armco.
That’s okay, I had my indicator on. Honestly, lesson here kids – stay away from anything within the satanic orbit of our capital city. They’re not right in the head down there.
* You’ll be relieved to know I kept my trousers on. But only because of the bloody seat belt.