Driving a car in a busy morning rush hour can be a little like playing a game of chess. Act like an arse, and somebody's eventually going to force a bishop up your nostril. And just because you act like King (or Queen) of the road is no guarantee of getting away with pushing the pawns about. That's the end of the chess/driving analogy, unless you're - oh-ho! - KNIGHT rider.
So, this is for the bloke driving behind me.
YOU: White, spanking new Range Rover Vogue, driven up my exhaust pipe for well over a mile on our morning commute into Reading.
ME: Filthy blue fifteen-year-old Nissan Micra, fed up with the bell-end driving right up my exhaust pipe
The Range Rover
Vogue. The car of twats. It's a sports car. It's an off-roader. It's a
statement of conspicuous consumption for bell-ends. The only time it's
used for sports is when you're driving the kids to the swimming pool.
The only time it goes off-road is when you park it on your drive.
Drive like an
arse, and you eventually get your comeuppance. Imagine then, my
annoyance as we come to the daily ten-minute queue for the A33
roundabout at Stratfield Saye. Obviously, I'm some sort of pleb, because
I've settled for my place in the queue. You - on the other hand -
despite not having flashing blue lights on the top of your car, or any
indication that you are carrying transplant organs, are FAR more
important than the rest of us, and attempt to nip to the front of the
line on the wrong side of the road. As you do, like a twat.
Imagine again -
if you will - my hoots of laughter as you come up against White Van Man
coming the other way. White Van Man who has no intention of getting out
of your way, and is making you reverse all the way back down the way you
came. To the back of the queue and beyond, where you sit seething in a
farm gateway, before you attempt a sixteen-point turn, and head off the
way you came.
Those exhaust fumes that filled the air as you revved and over-revved in your fury: Smells like VICTORY.