Indicators optional: The Why No One Should Be Allowed Near a Car Story.

I watched a science fiction film the other day. In it, people had developed a strange mode of transportation in which they folded themselves into dull, boring metal cubes, and when they exited the cubes they were at their destination. The problem was that the cubes seemed to have some sort of hold over each inhabitant, and on entering the peculiar device they became aggressive, ignorant, dangerous smug twats. They would scream dazzlingly inappropriate insults at other cube riders, get really close to the cube in front, to speed it up, and generally lose all sense of self, safety and proportion. It wasn’t a very good film if I’m honest, the narrative never really got going because it only lasted as long as my walk home, the camera was a bit shaky and – wait – wait a minute. It wasn’t a film at all, it was my walk home. Oh yes, that’s right: cars. People driving cars, not cubes. Other than that though, it’s exactly the same.

I don’t drive. We’ll get that out the way now, so that those of you who do and want to go ‘oh, you don’t drive, so you can’t have a balanced or reasoned opinion’ can piss off. Go on, piss off. Unless you’re sorry and apologise for saying a stupid. I don’t drive because I never really fancied it, had two lessons, didn’t like it, never got round to it, couldn’t afford it, but most importantly, because I’ve seen what it does to otherwise almost normal people. I have seen a grown up, human man become a grown up, human arse hole in a matter of seconds because a total stranger was faster ‘off the lights’. I have heard others tut or curse someones poor driving skills and then watched that very same Tutter consume what is officially too much beer before driving home. Sometimes I get a lift, because as mentioned before I’m an idiot. The point is that mature, sentient people sit on a drivers seat, turn the key and become a moron. Seemingly it’s everyone, though I’m sure not you, dear reader. I expect you’re very good, and careful, and even when you’re not careful you’re so good it’s ok.

“I can’t believe I got a fucking ticket!”
“Well, did you park somewhere illegally?”
“Yeah. Well – yeah – but not for long.”
“Did the sign say it was ok ‘not for long?”
“No.”
“Should this in any way surprise you?”

No. There is no way that it should in any way surprise you. You self obsessed, whining, fool. You know why you got it, there was a clear inherent risk, you got stung. Suck it up. Similarly, though I can imagine the indignant fury of getting a speeding fine, I also expect that they are given out because you were in fact speeding. Even when particularly inebriated, I have never lit a cigarette in a bar and subsequently been shocked, offended and pathetic when faced with the consequence. When I’m in power your car will simply know when you’re too drunk, lock the doors, call you a prick for even trying and drive itself home, laughing at you as it does. And if you’re speeding it will kick you in the knee really hard and use its bluetooth connection to text all your friends, telling them you’ve always loved them in a special, physical way and then it’ll MMS your mum a photo of your cock. While we’re at it, and yes by ‘we’ I mean me, what about using your sodding indicators. As a pedestrian – or when I’m feeling particularly suicidal and venture onto populated roads, a cyclist – it’s assumed that if you plan to turn, the little blinky light on the side of the car will alert me to this, and in return I will not walk out in front of your car. It’s a fairly good arrangement that seems to scream simplicity and clarity. Yet you don’t use them, and to add insult to what is often nearly a very nasty injury, you look at me as if it’s my fault for not having my fucking sixth fucking sense turned on. Wanker.

But I digress.

Aside from the huge, massive, crippling, crushing expense of learning to drive, buying a car, insuring and taxing car and filling a car up with expensively expensive fuel, there is the fact that I can walk. With my legs. They make me go from place to place, from the near to the about an hour or so away, before they contemplate not bothering, stopping or using a bus or a train. If I did have a car I would almost certainly drive, because I am spectacularly lazy. If I got lazier my bones would turn to felt and my hair to wool and I would become some sort of immobile muppet creature, and that would be rubbish. In a car everybody is that drumming muppet, Animal I think, all flailing arms and wobbly heads and shouting and stuff. It’s not a good look. I am aware that, not being a driver, I cannot understand the frustrations of incorrect speed limits, money grabbing gimmicks or those bloody annoying bits where you have to stop to let all the little, puny people cross. Look at them down there. Sad, really.

So I’m quite glad I don’t drive really. I’m enough of a monster on foot, I’d be terrifying encased in a metal shell, coming at you at 88mph. It does get awful tiresome pushing the spawn around and carrying shopping, but I’ve never crushed a bus stops worth of people to death or spent the time it takes for the light to go green shouting violently at the car in front. Or had to pretend a give a shit about how a car works. Who cares?

Anyway, at the end of the film everyone abandons the metal cubes and goes back to walking, and people talk more and get fitter and shit, and it’s great. And evil corporations suffer, yeah? I think Steven Seagal was in it. Basically: fuck cars. Unless its really raining, or far.

Or it’s dark.

Or that’s too heavy.

Or it’s an emergency.

Or like, if you’re really, really hungry and you’re not sure you can be bothered to walk.