Road Rage
February 4th, 2006 at 00:15
My mum recently put me on her car insurance and has been taking me out in the evenings in the vague hope that it’ll increase the chances of me passing my driving test.
I tend to narrate what I’m doing as it helps me stay focused, as well as reassure my mother that I’m not going to go ploughing into the child on the pavement who’s looking at me funny. To this end, any passenger when I’m driving is likely to hear:
“Crossing coming up… no pedestrians… green light… arsehole walking out into the road… chicane in the road in the distance… twats not slowing down to let me get through despite it being my right of way… bollocks! fuck! arsehole! twat!”.
Essentially, I’ve started swearing heavily again. I just hope I don’t carry on doing this when I have driving lessons, as I’m guessing my current instructor might be slightly more offended than my mother, who’s used to my swearing and even applauds it in some cases.
I think driving just tends to bring out the worst in people, though.
I was walking into Leicester city centre with Rob (of “goes to Uni with me” fame) and we were crossing a zebra crossing. Just as I’m approaching to cross a large white van comes flying round the corner and over the crossing. “How about an indicator?”, I ask rhetorically. It wasn’t aimed at the driver of course- I just wanted to sound like a big man in front of my relatively new friend.
As the driver passed me I saw he had his window rolled down so in all likelyhood heard every abuse word I’d said- all the way from “how” to “indicator?”. Out of embarassement, fear, and feeling a bit mean for criticising someone who has actually passed their test, I quickly jogged down the road away from the van. I looked back to see where Rob had got to, only to find him doing something most unexpected. By which I mean, he upstaged me slightly.
He was standing stationary on the pavement, arm stretched out giving a “two fingered salute” to the driver. This wasn’t even from behind- he was in front of the van, and in direct view of the front window of the van. Rob just stood there laughing, oscillating his two upright fingers back and fourth, taunting the van driver.
I was half expecting the driver of the van to stop and get out and give us a “good” kick-in. He looked the violent type- by which I mean the surly van driver type. The sort of person who’d find it hilarious to compare the cleanliness of his van to that of his wife, and then write as such in the dirt and dust on the side of it (the van, not the wife). The sort of person who’d go to a rough pub and boast to his “mates” (not “friends”, or “pals”) about how he’d “smacked” me and how “hard” he was as a consequence.
In the end, he just drove on carefully, but I bet if he had got out looking for a fight, he’d have been too busy damaging my major organs to notice my excellent judge of character skills.
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