Thursday, 26 August 2010

Driving to Lance's earlier I had the pleasure of having a disgusting little silver Citroen Saxo loaded with three teenage dicks behind me. There's this massive hill that you have to drive down as you approach Benfleet, and to be honest I'm not sure of the speed limit there but 50 seems more than enough. Especially in my rickety old car... any faster and I'm sure something would fall off. Anyway, so I'm kinda poodling down the hill between 40 and 50 and this Saxo comes round the corner behind me and speeds up until he's right on my arse. I could see them in there through my mirror laughing like the idiots they were. One of them had a hood. Naturally I slowed down to 20 and sauntered down the remainder of the hill and into the 30 zone. Fortunately there were no other cars behind so I had the luxury of dragging it out for what felt like another couple of minutes. I'd like to think it wiped the smiles off of their faces but I'd probably be wrong. When I finally got to the mini-roundabout where I had to turn off, I watched through the mirror as they sped off in the direction they were going. It felt like a victory to me. I chalked it up.

So this little episode got me thinking about a couple of things...

1.
That I wish I had a friend or family member who worked for the DVLA, so that I could jot down the number plates of these bastards and, ultimately, get their addresses so that I could then send them a small letter explaining what absolute shits they are. It would be a very concise letter, maybe just three words. I was thinking 'you absolute shit'.

2.
That I had actually gone ahead and at least produced a prototype Twat Flap by now. Hmmm... I suppose that before going on I really should explain exactly what the Twat Flap is. And, don't worry, it's not what it sounds like. Okay, well, here goes... the Twat Flap is a device that I invented for cars. It is essentially a piece of wood (or cardboard, or plastic, or whatever) that fits perfectly within the parcel shelf behind the back seat of your car. It would be hinged to the shelf itself and attached to a drawstring. This drawstring would then be fed along the ceiling if the car - possibly inside the lining if it's an option - all the way to the front of the car. The string would have a handle on the end, much like a light-switch in a bathroom. This would hang down next to the little mirror in the middle of the windscreen. Emblazoned on the board would be the word TWAT - although any word of your choice could conceivably be used. So, whenever you find some gurning idiot practically touching your bumper in his laughable little Ford Fiesta, all you have to do is pull on the cord and word TWAT will rise up and fill the whole of your rear window. There would be very little subtlety with the Twat Flap. The board would be weighted so that when you released the handle it would fall back into place on the parcel shelf and, of course, the longer you hold the string, the longer your idiot in his Fiesta finds himself on the receiving end of a good twatflapping.

God, that would be so good. Just imagine all the small victories you could have with a Twat Flap...

Whilst I'm on about these people I might as well mention something else that irked me today. This was when I was driving home in the afternoon. I'd just left a roundabout and saw these two teenage boys fiddling with massive speakers (woofers? something like that...) in the back of a car on the side of the road. I presume they were wiring them up so that they could amaze their meatheaded friends with "bass." Heh, I can see them now, down on the seafront on a Saturday night, orange girls and walking penises together as one, talking about the "bassline" of whatever generic drum and bass bullshit they happen to be listening to. Or listening to a minute of before getting bored and skipping to the next track. These people wouldn't know a bassline if it hit them in the face.

Whatever the fuck is going on in The Old Man's Back Again by Scott Walker - that's a bassline. Whatever is emanating from Paul McCartney's fingers on practically any Beatles song you like - that is a bassline.

Grrr.

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