Kraken-lovers, after having an entirely blog free week, thanks to the enforced parenting otherwise known as half-term, I’ve had to restrict such phrases as ‘foaming knackersacker’, ‘ staggerment of cock’ and ‘wearing his fucking kidneys as earmuffs’ for when I’ve locked myself in the toilet for a sneaky rum. Now that it’s once again up to Kraken Junior’s teachers to keep her and the grim Reaper apart I am free to publicly splutter once more and today I am dedicating such public splutter at the exhaust sucking fucktards who drive six inches from my back bloody bumper.
Unless you travel via magic carpet and have never set wheel on a British road, you know exactly who I am talking about. You see, regardless of whether I’m hurtling down a motorway, pootling through a 20mph zone outside a school or actually sitting in a six mile tailback on the Second Severn Crossing there will be a car so close to my arse end that I can’t actually tell if it has a registration plate, headlights or bonnet. In fact said Audi or BMW – because it is always, always, always one of those fucking cars – will be so close that I can smell the Lynx, Wank Edition that the driver is invariably wearing.
Now before you suggest it, I’m not a slow driver. I’ve seen grown men stagger, rubber legged, from my passenger seat after a trip down the motorway (as it were) and, in 25 years of driving, the only time I ever caused a tailback was when my clutch attempted to re-enact the meltdown at Chernobyl. So it as sure as shit isn’t my driving that’s forcing one driver after another to travel so close behind me that I actually fear they’ll slip a digit up my chassis.
Yet that’s exactly what the key-rattling, fume-inhaling bellenders do. I recall driving down a steep hill in fast traffic and horizontal rain only to see in my mirror a white van driving so close to me that I couldn’t even see its fucking windscreen. Then there was the motorway incident where, out of nowhere, a car came at my back bumper at such speed that I clenched myself for the impact. Oh, and the endless traffic jams where the cars in my rearview mirror have insisted on being so close to me that I’ve almost offered them a condom. And on the deeply rare occasions when I get out of their way (because once the gauntlet has been thrown down, I am as sure as shit throwing it back at them) they just drive up to the next car in front of me and do it all over again.
What in the embogglement of fuck is wrong with these tenuous examples of human existence? I mean, at what point in the foggy reasoning of their underactive brains does it appear to be a good idea to drive to closely to my car that they can’t actually tell when I’m slamming on the brakes? Perhaps they drive powerfully magnetic cars which automatically attach themselves to other cars within a twenty foot range. Then again, perhaps they are all partially sighted to the point that they can’t spot a speeding lump of red metal when they drive up to it. Or perhaps they are all so crippled with suicidal tendencies that every other car on the road is a chance to opt out of their wildy depressive states. Yet perhaps they are simply pig-thick, self-obsessed, ball-cupping knobscotters who think that car tax actually buys them chunks of their own road.
Fuck knows, I am impatient but these guys are in a league that I can barely register. Imagine being impatient to the point that a head-on collision is preferable to getting to the Spar thirty seconds later than planned? And it’s not their lives that I care about, because the fewer of them alive to infect our roads, the better. It’s my bloody life that I am trying to preserve as well as that of Kraken Junior because me having a child in my car doesn’t seem to make any difference to these festering tools. Hey! Why kill one woman when you can kill her six year old too!
That’s why, when one of these cars is behind me I refuse to back down. Ever. To me that’s like backing down to schoolyard bullies, a scenario which doesn’t even register in my Kraken DNA. So I keep on driving as I would have done and if said car insists on attempting to fit itself into my boot I turn my rearview mirror so that I can’t see them. Not, though, until I have held on my windscreen wipers for such a length of time that the car behind is in danger of choking to a stop. And that’ll have to suffice until the UK introduces gun laws that allow me to hang out of my window, one hand on the wheel, while I fire shots at the guy behind like an enraged Bruce Willis.
This is why I am designing a car that looks like any other Picasso or Merc but, really, is built like a military tank. Then when close-contact wank-handles attempt 80mph on my back bumper I can do an emergency stop, causing them to slam into my arse and, ideally, perish while leaving me and my family intact. I can then drive away, waving cheerily at them in my rearview mirror as they bleed furiously onto the hard shoulder. If it’s a race to the death that these guys want, I really am more than happy to help.