Whoa! I’ve just had a small mental implosion from which I will never recover if I don’t write about it. It’s something that’s been festering in my brain like a small, gangrenous water vole hibernating for a nuclear winter. Which is why the next time I am on the road and see someone taking a physical shit on the Highway Code I am going to beat them to death with a traffic cone. See, I fucking hate other drivers.
I don’t just fucking hate them. I really, really fucking hate them. That’s because there are so many who drive as if their frontal lobes have been replaced by those stinky little traffic lights that you hang off your rearview mirror. Actually, it’s a miracle that I get from A to B in one piece because every time I get behind the wheel my eyes bleed with rage and I have no idea if I am still on the road or actually traversing a playground full of children.
Problem is that my dad was a driving instructor which means the Highway Code is actually imprinted on my brain. I know exactly when to use fog lights or when to indicate on a roundabout with 137 exits and, like The Terminator, I can spot the transgressing little fuckers a mile away. However, in an effort to create structure from rage I’ve made a list. My therapist says it’ll help:
Fog lights: The clue is in the title you wank-faced toss-beagles. F.O.G. Fog. So why in the fuck you have your fog lights on when it’s 24 degrees outside and the rest of us are getting tans is beyond me. Think we won’t see you if you don’t put them on? You’re wrong. We’ll see you because you’re the biggest twat to hit the M4 this side of rush hour.
Indicators: Why in the fuck are so many people so incapable of flicking a finger at their indicator arm? It’s beyond me how anyone could be either so searingly lazy or just giddyingly ignorant of other road users. They may as well drive with a neon sign that reads “Fuck you, tosspot” on the roof of their car.
Zigzags: They are there for a purpose you self-obsessed bell-ends! At what point did becoming a parent actually erase common sense from your fucking brain? No, it didn’t? Then in that case stop treating the zigzags like personal parking spaces and go around the block until you find somewhere to stop just like the rest of us law-abiding dipsticks.
Phones: Seriously, unless you are driving while giving birth and phoning for an ambulance because the baby’s head is getting in the way of the gearstick, turn the fucking thing off. Exactly how important is it for you to gabble at your mate while you’re negotiating the busiest junction in London? And as for people who text while driving, I’d cut their fingers off and feed them to starving Belgian otters.
Tailgating: No, you lumpen-brained Audi/ BMW/ Saxo driver. I won’t go any faster because you are actively trying to drive your way up my rectum. And I can’t go any faster because there’s a mile of fucking traffic in front of me. Oh and if I could go faster I fucking well wouldn’t, not unless it was in reverse and right over your fucking head.
I could go on, really I could, but I have hit the keyboard so hard I am now bleeding from the fingertips as well. Just let it be known that the next time you hear of a major traffic incident it’s probably me taking potshots with a pistol at drivers while crouching on the hard shoulder of the M6. There’s no need to thank me right now. Just wait until I’ve cleansed the roads of foaming bell-ends. No, no, you’re quite alright.
So what makes you put your fist through the windscreen when you are on the road? Shit parkers? Weavers? Anyone who drives an Audi? Do tell, darlings, do tell.