Friday, June 03, 2005


Automobile Dysfunction

When it was coming up to my eighteenth birthday, I remember making a mental list of all the things that frightened me most about adult life. I believe getting married was one, and having kids, and paying bills, and that sort of thing.

So far, however, by far the worst thing about adulthood has been going to the pub and listening to other men talk about cars. I might have unwittingly given the impression in this post that I am a keen driver. Perish the thought. I have no especial objection to driving, and I'll watch 'Top Gear' if I'm in at the time, but emphatically I do not wish to discuss them all the fucking time.

I went to the pub with some friends last night, and they talked about nothing else. They're companions of no little merit when they talk about something interesting, but bugger me is getting them to do that the Devil's own job. They talked about different models, paint jobs, types of key, anything under the sun. That's right, some cars come without keys nowadays, apparently having a button that says 'Start Engine', presumably for the benefit of those too cretinous to switch an ignition key.

The worst of all is that they could talk about 'doing up' their cars. No modification was too ludicrous for their approval. Here is, I swear, a sample of the sort of thing they were saying about 'modification:'

Man 1: 'Hey, have you seen, there's a car going around Fartville with a full aquamarine carbon-fibre body kit with added foballozadadine with go faster stripes and fluorescent lighting underneath.'

Man 2: 'That's nothing. I hear there's a car going around Sodittown with its headlights in backwards.'

Man 3: 'Pathetic. My mate Toerag has got his windscreen washer jets pointing out sideways so it sprays pedestrians. Neat, huh?'

Man 4: 'Well, I've heard . . . .'

and so on, and so on, ad infinitum.

Get a grip, men! Talk about something interesting or I'll crash into you.

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