OK, I'll admit it. I'm a petrol-burning Earth-raping animal-killing maniac with a car.If – and I'm using the loosest definition possible – you can call a Renault Scenic a car.
I will also admit to a certain actual KILLED TO DEATH death toll of small, fluffy animals that failed to yield to the plastic, metal and rubber of my Renault Scenic of DEATH.
Not least – and this took a bit of a run-up and a good, practised aim – the crow that was too busy pecking at roadside carrion to notice me hurtling along the M27 to despatch it into wherever crows go when they die.
There was an explosion of feathers and crow bits, and I drove on to my destination – the urban sprawl and despair that is the not-quite-city of Reading some fifty miles away.
To be perfectly honest, I don't take any great joy in running things down on the road, and have even given up pulling over to supplement my meagre diet of chocolate, biscuits and chips with a bit of fresh meat. By the time I had reached the traffic light capital of the south of England, my work as some sort of avian nemesis was well-and-truly forgotten.
Stop – start – stop – start. Reading has more sets of traffic lights than actual people, all of them set to red by the smug, bearded car-haters at the council offices, as they watch us all struggling to work on CCTV cameras, knitting their own packed lunches.
It is as I draw up to yet another red light that I suspect something may be wrong. This is because the little old lady pushing to shopping trolley from one side of the road to the other in a pedestrian phase that lasts ten minutes has had what can only be described as "a bit of a funny turn".
In fact, she clocked my car, and a funny turn ensued.
Then it happened again at the next set of lights – a mere fifty yards away – where a Catholic priest crossed himself, had a bit of a funny turn, recovered, before threatening me and the remains of my mortal soul with a crucifix.
Jesus.
School kids fled in terror.
Disgusted looks and double-takes from a bus.
And a wino being sick inna hedge, which may or may not be unrelated.
So I got out and have a look.
"Ah-ha – just as I thought."
Just as I thought. The Renault Scenic from HELL was sporting a hideous deathly trophy of DEATH in the form of a poor dead crow – killed utterly to DEATH – spread-eagled across the radiator grille, with blood, gore and crow bits decorating the front end of my motor in a fine blood, gore and crow bit motif.
If I was a sad old goth it is EXACTLY how I'd have my car. Except it would be a clapped out Mini, obviously.
I peeled it off, fleetingly tried mouth-to-beak to mollify a gathering hate mob, and left it for the crows. Then I jumped behind the wheel of the Silver Hornet and fled.
Next week I'm trying for a Jehovah's Witness.
No comments:
Post a Comment