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.
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