Why I hate driving......
I fucking hate driving.

I hate it in the same way I hate Liver & Onions, or Piers Morgen. That’s how bad, It’s fighting for a champions league place in the premiere league of hatred. I put off having to take a driving test till I was 22, and only at this point did I take one at the risk of losing my job. By the time I’d passed at the third attempt I’d had circa 70 lessons. At this point the economy was booming and driving instructors were swanning around milking £20 an hour whilst loosely dangling there Breitling watches out of car windows. Not like the million lessons for forty quid you get now in the midst of recession. No, no, no at this point it was about 20 quid a lesson, and in total about 80 quid for a test. So add these lessons together, along with practical and theory tests, and your looking at the best part of 1700 quid to obtain a license.

Now, being young, naive and stupid, I thought at this point I thought I had taken the financial brunt of driving. I was wrong.

The first car advice I got was from my dad, which was, ‘as long as you’ve got a car son, you will never have any money’

He was fucking right.

I keep a little black book. Now, don’t get excited, I’m nowhere near rock n’ roll enough to own a little black book of all the women I’ve slept with over the course of a life time. That would read more like those 2 page conservative election leaflets you get thru’ the door. And we all know how shit and void of substance they are. No, shamefully, the little black book details all the outgoings on cars I’ve made in the last 4 years. I can tell you now, it’s fucking scary.

Here’s how it reads....roughly.

Cars - £19600
Petrol £8640
Insurance - £4450
Services - £1120
Shit that went wrong - £624

Now add this to the amount of money it took to pass, and in 4 and a half years I’ve spent £36134 on something I fucking well despise having to do...........DRIVE.

For that I could have got me.....

- 13’897 pints of lager, or...
903 grams of cocaine (not that I would, but I could have bought a friend 903 grams of cocaine, it’s more the point), or.....
14’453 packs of cigarettes (10 box of course), or....
1’032 hookers in Amsterdam, or.....
80 Apple iPhones, or.....
103 32” LCD TV’s,.....
90 West Bromwich Albion Season Tickets, or.....
65’698 Dairy milks, or.....

anything else that may have made my life a little better.
(Sir_Digby_Chicken_Caeser [email protected], Sat 24 Apr 2010, 12:56, 3 replies)

I used to have four cars.
The only one that wasn't completely shit died in 1980.

They're Beetles.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 12:31, 2 replies)

Just ran an amber light in Tallaght, Dublin
was pulled over by a very attractive cop/garda/girl.

She took my phone number.

I'm in I think.
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 11:17, 4 replies)

Opening doors without looking
I was out on a run one morning before work. I ran past a few parked cars and as was level to one the drivers side door flew open right in to me. I ran in to it with enough force for the corner to puncture my t-shirt and in turn my shoulder. I flipped over and landed on my head "Are you alright mate?" the man enquired as I lay there clutching my shoulder, closely followed by "Fucking hell!" when he saw the blood. He jumped in his car and drove off leaving me there half conscious. Thankfully I was in town and there were other people about and I was helped, one even had the number plate and a description. Police didn't want to know though. Had stitches in my shoulder and ruined my Polysics T-shirt. I'd like to think his car was damaged but it probably wasn't.
( Peej, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 10:54, 4 replies)

Hit and get chips and run
I was walking to work, when a drunk driver tried to park outside the local fish and chip shop. It was a dark coloured 4X4 with a shiny cattle bar thingy on the front. The driver mounted the pavement, hit me, knocked me sideways and finished parking. I was lying on the floor, not remembering a lot of this, then a woman was asking me if I was okay. I remember the car pulling away as I was being helped to my feet/calling an ambulance etc. The driver had apparently gotten some dinner from the fish and chip shop and driven away, not realising what they had done. The town is small, but it was the school half term so the police didn't find the vehicle from my concussed half-description.

I had concussion, scrapes, bruises and a dodgy ankle. And a crippling fear of all 4X4s.
(Mrs Ballunatic counting calories, not votes., Sat 24 Apr 2010, 10:18, Reply)

RAC not listening on the phone
"I am in Tesco's car park and my engine has exploded. Send help"

So they send a man in a small van to come and assess the damage. The engine has exploded, right enough. Nothing he can do about that then, are we surprised? No.

"I'll need to get a tow vehicle, one is on it's way to you now" and off the RAC man in the small van heads to another job.

More bored time later a nice big giant lorry appears, you know, the kind that tow busses, for my little car. Overkill maybe? Oh yes. Can it get under the 2.1 meter height limit for the car park? Not even close.

Cue myself, RAC man and 2 members of the public (thank you very much) pushing my car up and out of the car park (and over speed bumps, thank you Tesco) all the way to the truck.

Entire episode took close to four hours.

Not my longest by far but the longer story is just too long to explain in detail and I am lazy. Was involved in an accident approx 10 miles from home. 9 (NINE) hours later I was 40 miles from home. Aren't the RAC clever? No. They are cunts.
( --=| Daz |=-- has been masturbating over a picture of you since, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 8:48, 3 replies)

A rotting corpse makes a terrible smell in a car
or so my builder told me.

He bought a very nice car at auction which seemed, he later realised, rather unusually spotless and pine-smelling inside.

Over a few weeks, as the disinfectant wore off, he noticed an awful stench. No amount of air fresheners would cover it and his wife and kids eventually refused to travel in the car.

He did a bit of digging and found that the car's last owner had killed himself in it, not being found for quite some time afterwards.
Presumably the unfortunate man's family had had the car cleaned up and sent to auction soon afterwards - it was a newish car and worth a bit.

For my builder, that was the last straw. He paid a local scally to torch the car, claimed on the insurance and washed his hands of it.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 8:33, 6 replies)

Teen Car Crash - Everyone's had one. Here's mine.
My mate was the first one of our group to pass his test. His parents gave him a two door silver-blue mini metro for his first car. It therefore became our first car.

Many weekend evenings were spent driving aimlessly around the Kentish countryside. We'd all hop out and go wandering through some farmer's wood, and then, on a prearranged signal, everyone (except the victim) would dash off back to car and with a screech, we'd be off, leaving the hapless loner in the middle of a pitch black wood with only the diminishing rear lights of the silver-blue metro for company. We always came for them eventually.

After one evening's merrie japes in the car, we were driving back to town. My mate, the driver, doing a bit over the speed limit, said "Shall I swerve about a bit?" - "YEAAAHHH" shouted the chorus of the other four teenagers crammed in the vehicle (including myself).

The car went left. The car went right. The car went left again. The car...

The car rolled over. Flipped onto its roof, and span around and around. The occupants were dangling from their seatbelts (we were reckless teens, but we were not stupid - clunk click every trip). The car continued spinning (on its roof) down the Kentish B-Road, and finally slipped into a ditch, crashed through a fence and came to a halt in field.

Someone said "Is everyone ok?" - A low chorus of "yeaaah" was emitted by the upended deathcheaters. Someone (possibly me) said "If I smell petrol I'm fucking smashing a window." My mate managed to prise open his door, and we all crawled out. We climbed over the fence, none of us hurt apart from the bumps on our heads. We looked at the other side of the road. The other side consisted of closely spaced oak trees, that, if we'd gone the other way (50/50 chance), it would have almost certainly resulted in a few fatalities.

We went to the nearest house. My mate rung his parents. I walked home. My parents were out. My sister was in. "Where have you been?" she asked. "Car crash" I said. I didn't elaborate, but simply went up to my room and played 'Hexen' on my computer.
(theremin put the lotion in the basket on, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 8:25, 1 reply)

Honda Accord
Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord Honda Accord


Apologies for the Honda Accord.
(McChinaman banned, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 7:45, Reply)

Apparently Christine Jorgensen
traded in her hotrod for a volvo.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 7:43, 2 replies)

The wife asked me the other day
"Is this the way you pictured married life?"

"Yep, pretty much," I said. "Except we drove around in a van solving mysteries."
(McChinaman banned, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 7:42, 1 reply)

I sold a car that killed someone...
This happened way back in 1999...

My dad, Jack, had a massive heart attack and I came home after being estranged for almost a year.
My mother was in a bit of a state and needed to get around as they had no car. She was desperate and I did a bit of selling as a side business of old cars, generally for cash in hand.
I had one car that was a bit on the dodgy side - it had been in an accident but had been patched up and I'd driven it around a while and it seemed ok. It was the only thing within my mother's budget to be honest and I couldn't really imagine anything that could go wrong as she'd just be using it as a runabout.

My Dad recovered ok and everything was fine until my generous mother gave one of the neighbours a lift...
It was just a short normal trip to the shops, as these things always are, when a car came out of nowhere and collided with my mother's car. It was a fairly low speed collision but because of the poor state of the car, the engine impacted on the passenger compartment and gave my mother's friend a serious blow on the leg.
At the time it was brushed off as a bit of bruising, but a few days later she collapsed and died from a blood clot shifting to her heart.

Ah, hang on a sec, it was Terry Duckworth from Coronation Street that sold the car, not me.
( scoshi pretending to diet since, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 6:31, 1 reply)

As a cyclist I have thoughts on some drivers
Most people are ace but you do still find some utter knobs on the road. This post is aimed at them, though luckily they're relatively few and far between. I know I'm opening myself up for a torrent of abuse about badly behaving cyclists and I agree that some fit into the "knob" category referred to above, however this is about my experience of cars and their drivers, so here goes...

You know how when you drive past cyclists and have to check your rearview mirror to make sure you've overtaken safely? That's usually a good indicator that you haven't.

Yelling "get in the cycle lane" is neither big nor clever. Most are badly designed if not downright dangerous leading cyclists into dooring zones, or strewn with potholes and broken glass. They are not compulsory and I'm not going to put myself in danger just so you can get to the next queue of stationary traffic slightly faster. Quoting Chapman, drivers bring almost all the danger to the situation, yet it is the cyclists who should apparently take the long way round on a path with a loose surface littered with broken glass and dog excrement. No thanks.

Yelling "can't afford a car?" is especially hilarious when you do it from a dented 10 year old VW Polo with bald tyres and broken tail lights.

Finally, there's no such thing as "road tax." Sorry, but there really isn't. Council tax pays for most of the cost of building roads whilst VED goes into the general tax pot a bit like tax on fuel, alcohol, cigarettes etc. You may as well call it a "debt tax" because that's what most of it seems to go on. Don't feel too bad, I still get fisted by Brown on everything else believe me, and I still pay VED on the rarely used car sat on my drive anyway.

And relax...
(Captain Skippy pooed in a bag and left it on your doorstep, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 6:13, 8 replies)

Jo's Nissan
Jo used to run around in a little Fiat. She had it for umpteen years, but after she married Bill who was the sort of height that had his knees up around his ears in the thing, they put it in for a bigger Nissan, the "Cedric" luxury model. The Japanese imagined that "Cedric" was an OK name for a car in Australia. Unaccountable.

Jo was a keen church goer and the manager for the largest Nissan dealer in Brisbane, let's call him Ian for that - - - was also a parishioner,she'd known him for years. So I guess that is why Jo and Bill came to buy a Nissan rather than something else. It must have the last one to sport quarter windows.

She left her handbag on the front seat and someone broke the quarter window, opened the door and took her bag. All in about ten minutes. The car was about a year old.

So they had to get a new quarter window. They ordered it from the Nissan dealer but nothing happened. After a few weeks Jo phoned manager Ian and asked if he could do something. Weeks turned into months and the clear plastic patch over the opening had been replaced twice. Frequent calls to the Nissan parts department did no good.

Finally she wrote to the Japanese consul. A week later a well wrapped parcel arrived. It was a replacement quarter window, no charge.
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 4:27, 3 replies)

Did you know
Pedophiles are more likly to own a volvo.
(shake'n'bake Tally Ho, Biatch!, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 2:13, 2 replies)

The thing about the 2 second rule
(which becomes the 6 second rule if you're on the M62 going over Saddleworth Moor and it starts to piss down) is that when you get at least 2 seconds behind someone you create quite a gap. Two seconds at 70mph is just over 200ft. In that situation, it is a certainty that someone will overtake and pull into that space.

Mind you, I've seen cars change lanes into a gap between two cars I wouldn't like to reverse park into.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 1:03, 2 replies)

Yelled by the mister after an encounter with a particularly dozy bint in Slough
"It's for people like you that I own a car with a low pedestrian safety rating!"
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 0:56, 1 reply)

I dont drive

It has just never interested me.
Have spent years hitching and had some very scary moments doing so
But the scariest time I ever had in a vehicle was being driven by a mad squaddie.
If any of you know the stretch of road around Sharrow Point and Tregantle Fort in Cornwall you will know that it is a bit twisty and turny and there is a very steep drop down from the road to the sea, possibly a hundred or so feet down.
And no barrier to stop you from careering down the steep green slopes to the sudden rocky edge and a freefall into space and then into the sea.
Unless you are lucky enough to hit one of the many wooden holiday chalets dotted around below.
Coming back from a reccy further up the coast and running a bit late for the evening meal at the fort, he was hammering it a bit.
Every time we got close to the edge I gulped loudly and this seemed to amuse him.
I really was trying to be cool, but white knuckle gripping the door handle and praying silently to God, Baphomet , Isis and whatever Catholic deity who was the patron saint of safe journeys.
I didnt care who was listening as long as someone was.

The second time the passenger side wheels slid over the edge and we churned soil before getting back onto the road I lost it.
I yelled for him to stop or slow down.
His response?
"If you dont like my driving, then you do fecking do it"
And he grabbed my hand , put it on the steering wheel and he let go.
I screamed like a soft girlie, grabbed it with both hands but I just didnt know what to do.
And kept screaming as we careered along the road for a while before he laughed again and took over.
I was near breakdown when we arrived at the fort, ran to the loo and threw up.
And got the pee taken out of me for the rest of the exercise :(
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 0:39, 1 reply)

Pigeon of DEATH
A few years ago, I was driving my friend Alex into town in my dad's battered old golf estate. It was high summer, we had the windows down, some Led Zeppelin on the stereo... all was right with the world. Rounding a corner at about 50mph, I spied half a dozen pigeons on the road, trying to eat the tarmac or something. I was in a hurry (we were going to the pub), I was eighteen and Led Zeppelin were playing. I wasn't slowing for a pigeon. I judged they'd all get clear in any case.

Most of them got clear, but one was a fraction too slow. It bounced off the bonnet and clobbered the aerial, breaking it off. The slipstream then ensured that the aerial was sucked in through the passenger window to belt Alex in the side of the head. A fraction of a second later it was followed, beak first, by the now enraged pigeon. Somehow it managed to get in a solid peck or two at Alex's head, before leaving the same way it came in.

I nearly ploughed the car into a ditch, I was laughing so hard. It was only made better at the pub later when one girl leant over and asked "Alex... Why have you got feathers in your hair?"
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 24 Apr 2010, 0:19, 3 replies)

Kev Sullivan was a pal of my father's -
and way back in the 1950s he bought a new Holden. Now one of the problems with the F series Holden was that there were only a dozen different keys. If you had a few Holden keys then there was a good chance you could just drive a new car away without even breaking in. Or so the story went. Kev's car went too.

Kev lived in a town boasting 1200 souls so there was not a lot of searching to be done by police and a new car stuck out like the proverbial.

A month or so went by with no news and Kev went back to cycling. Then he had to go to Brisbane, the best part of 1000 km away by road or rail.

He put up at a hotel near the main post office. Two days later he saw a new Holden parked nearby. Same colour. Same plates. He still had the keys so he nipped back to his room, grabbed them, He threw what was in the car into the middle of the street and drove to the nearest police station.

The newspaper he had bought the day the car was stolen was still in it.
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 22:50, Reply)

I bought a Renault Laguna Diesel..
from a bloke I'd known for ages, it was in decent nick and a diesel which is what I wanted. So I pays me money and sets off home.

Driving up the motorway about 15 minutes later, foot flat to the floor and this fucking thing is struggling to reach 70 mph and I'm thinking 'I've made a BIG mistake with this'.

As I was passing a 7.5 tonne truck at about 65, car engine straining like fuck, my bonnet flew up, smashing my windscreen and causing the seat of my trousers to turn a smelly shade of brown. I swear I could see shards of glass floating past me in ultra slow motion.

Anyway, bloke in the truck saw what was happening and dropped back to let me pull onto the hard shoulder cos I couldn't see where I was going on account of a large sheet of metal blocking my view. I managed to get onto the shoulder and stopped.

I got out of the car, shaking like a very shaky thing. About 4 feet in front of me was one of those huge signs for roadworks. If I'd have hit that, I'd probably be dead by now.

Anyhoo, I got back in the car thinking 'what do I do now?'.
A little voice in my head informed me that I wasn't insured. A little voice from my mouth said 'Oh fuck....'. The car wasn't taxed either as I needed to go to the DVLA office to change the taxation class from 'disabled' to 'PLG'...

So, phoned my insurance company, changed the insurance from my old car to this one, took me 10 minutes. 20 minutes later, I called them again and said summat along the lines of 'You're not gonna believe this but...'. I told them what had happened, they said 'don't worry, it happens all the time'. Amazed..

Next day, Mrs Toonarme took me to the local DVLA place where I changed the Taxation Class and put 6 months tax on it, backdated to the start of the month...

End result, I paid £900 for the car, the car was written off by the insyrance because the roof was dented and it would have cost too much to get it right and the insurance valued it at £1900, so even after my excess, I got £1700. Didn't even affect my no claims...

I feel really guilty sometimes...

I've had a bunch of Renaults, that was my last one. Apart from one or two, they were shit.
( His Popiness the Hole Invaded Poland on, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 22:40, 2 replies)

I really shouldn't be telling this story, and I know I'll get a lot of hate, but...
When I was 19, I was on top of the world. A job, a car, and copious amounts of beer, mostly in the form of the 40 ounce malt liquor. I don't know if you brits have the pleasure of this incredible beverage, but it is 40 ounces of high strength lager, usually sold at corner stores in the ghetto for about $2-$3

It was late one night after a few of these at a party that my friends and I decided to call it a night, and as I was the one with a car, I was the one responsible for driving everybody home. I was driving way too fast, but the roads were empty, except for a lone police car that just happened to be driving the opposite direction. As we passed, the police turned their lights on, and that's when I knew we were fucked.

Well...not really. You know when you watch a police chase on TV and you say to yourself, "why would anybody do that? Why don't they just pull over and take the speeding ticket?" Well at that instant I permanently lost my right to ever ask that question again.

"I've got a GTI, I can lose them." Is what I was thinking at the time. This, however, was not correct. A few blocks later, my car is wrapped around a fire hydrant, both the airbags deployed and my friends and I in a daze. We are snapped out of our stupor by the police on their loudspeaker saying: "GET OUT OF THE CAR!" I wanted to. I really did, but unfortunately there was a stop sign wedged against my door, so getting out that way was not exactly an option. I rolled down the window, and attempted to climb out like that. Unfortunately I was so drunk, I fell on my face instead of performing the graceful dismount I had envisioned. I get up, and I am face to face with a short, fat sassy black cop.

"Now I know you ain't gonna tell me you wasn't drinking, cause I could smell you before you got out your car."

At this point, I was fucked, I figured. So I was honest with her. "Yes maam, I was drinking."

"Well that's what you get, isn't it" The cop said, pointing to my smoking wreck of a car. "I was just going to tell you to slow down, but you're stupid. Your daddy is gonna kill you when he finds out what you did to his car."

Now did I mention that I was being honest? Because it might have been the booze, but I was a little too honest at this point.

"No officer, that's MY car. ( I was very proud of myself) I bought it all myself."

"Well your daddy's still gonna kill you."

She had a point. She then went to my friends, and asked them if they were OK. They were, and she then asked them if they had a way to get home. We were all within walking distance of our houses, and thy told her so. She said: "well then get your butts back home." After that, she went up to me and said:

"Now I'm gonna tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna call you a tow truck, and it's gonna be a policeman, and if he asks you if you've been drinking, you say NO."

At this point, I am in total and utter disbelief. I just crashed my car while running from the police, while drunk, and here is a police officer telling me to lie to the police. I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I did exactly what she said. The tow truck came, it was a policeman, he asked me if I had been drinking, and I said no. He towed my car to the impound, and the original cop gave me a ride home.

I know for certain that this incident will never and could never be topped as the most incredibly stupid and lucky thing that I have ever done in my life. I can't imagine I'll get any more second chances like this. So with that being said, hate away on me for being a douchebag drunk driver.


EDIT: I forgot to mention that I didn't get away totally scot free. I did get a $25 speeding ticket.
(raulduke, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 22:39, 5 replies)

Not me but cousin Darcy -
was driving along a back lane toward home one day and just before the corner saw Arthur F in his back yard. So he stopped to speak to Arthur, and after a few minutes Arthur says "Come in for a beer." So Darcy did. They had another one and Darcy says he'd better be getting home. So he went out the front door and walked around the corner.

Next morning it was -

"Where's my bloody car?"
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:50, Reply)

Former roomate
bought a brand new 2008 Nissan 350Z and had some mods installed before it was off the lot. Only 2 miles on it even after the test drive. It was fast and growled like a panther with with a megaphone. He came home one night and told us that he had raced a Corvette on the freeway and gotten up to 140 mph.

We told him if he ever did that again, we would slash all of his high-performance tires.

Either he never did it again or he just hasn't told us. In any case, he's still alive, so we're happy about that.
( intesvensk can't recall when I last checked the newsletter, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:36, 1 reply)

A pearost from the long long ago.
God's own economy run.
In the year after I graduated I lived in Earls Court and worked for various hifi stores in jobs that varied between full and decidely part time. It wasn't a bad life but it was inconsistant in terms of income. In one particular period I had three incredibly good months followed by two months of one day a week at best with no bugger buying anything. By the end of month two I was flat broke and out of most of the niceties of life. I decided there was nothing for it- I would have to go and see the folks.

Herein lay a problem, I couldn't afford the train and even the last resort of the desperate- National Express- wasn't an option as the service from London to tiny provincial villages in Hampshire seemed to be off that week. I resolved I would have to use my car.

The car had been bought during the good months previously- a 1994 Nissan 200SX. The business of buying and insuring it had destroyed the three months money and a big chunk of cash I had set aside to boot. I'd then found myself without a pot to piss in and it had barely turned a wheel since. I considered selling it but the pride of a young man dictates I could only sell it for what I'd paid for it. It could under ordinary circumstances take me the 80 or so miles home in a little over an hour but there were two significant issues;
1) The fuel warning light was on
2) I had no means of refueling it.

Nevertheless, I decided there was nothing for it but to give it a go. I reckoned on there being a gallon and a bit in the tank (my continued experience of these things suggests they are hopelessly pessimistic) and if measures of extreme economy were taken I could get it home. With hindsight I have no idea what I was thinking. Anybody who has owned a 200SX will know that although it was only a 2 litre four pot, the fact that it was turbocharged and encouraged a thrashing at any oppotunity meant that 30mpg was a challenge and I was setting out with a gallon and a bit to do 80.

The drive itself was a horrifying affair. Gearchanges were made at 1500rpm to avoid any sniff of boost, the self imposed maximum speed for the trip was 56mph and any opportunity to freewheel was eagerly seized. I was overtaken by lorries, caravans and I believe at one point, an invalid carriage. I kept the windows up, the heater and fan off and (in the belief the it might do some good) the stereo too. In the long, cold silence of the trip, empires rose and fell and time slowed to glacial pace as the miles ticked slowly by and the fuel gauge fell towards the empty stop. I've since been on track days and advanced driving courses where I concentrated less than I did that day.

I'd love to say I made it but I didn't. Eight miles from home, the car conked out and coasted to the side of the road. One and a half gallons had got me 73.4 miles (indelibly burned into my mind on the tripometer) which I maintain is no mean feat in a 200SX. I was forced to phone my dad and confess that my gamble had failed. Bless him, he dutifully turned up with a jerrycan of unleaded and I nursed the car home. I was fed and watered, the car issued with a full tank and I solemnly negotiated a "bridging loan" with my parents and promised to sell the car that had failed to get me back.

Of course I went back to London to find my hours massively extended and business booming. The cash went back to the folks and the car had a few more oppotunities to cost me a bomb.

I no longer own a car.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:18, 1 reply)

A few weeks ago now...
I was on my way to Lincoln. Its a bit of a journey but it was for work to go visit our main call centre, which we are soon to become part of but down here in little old Huntingdon. So anyways... work had gotten us in two groups of 4 and shoved us in some rental cars, each with an appointed driver.

The lady who drove us up was the worst driver in the world. She swerved all over the roads and had no clue what she was doing. Cut up a few cars and was generally an embarrassment to be seen with. Cringing in the back seat while other drivers swore at us. I had the pleasure of sitting in the back on the drivers side and seeing a huge van nearly crash into us from where she cut him up on a roundabout. Never been so terrified of being in a car in my whole life. Spent nearly 2 hours with my heart in my throat. Her lisence should be revoked. Crazy old bat.

Complained to my team leader, though I honestly can't see anything being done about it. I sure as hell warned everyone I knew not to get in a car with her.
(kellysprinkles dying for a pee since, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:17, Reply)

Its a love affair

Jesus built my hot rod
(schrodingers cat now you see me, or not, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:13, Reply)

Cars
First car I drove was a blue Austin Metro. My parents took me to my uncle's farm and told me to drive round the yard in it to get used to it. A goose stepped in front of me, I hit the accelerator in surprise and rammed the car into a walnut tree. The car issued a wisp of steam and expired.

Second car was a yellow mini cooper. A few days after passing my driving test I gave a lift to some girls from school. In a car park I got in a race with another car to see who could do a 3 point turn the quickest. In my haste I reversed into a garage. I got out to inspect the damage: the bumper looked a bit squashed so I tried to pull it back into shape and it came off in my hand.

Next car was a white Mini Metro. This decided to give up the ghost while visiting the most westerly point in Europe (in Norway, if you're interested). I ended up being bump started all the way from there back to Bergen, onto the ferry, and again off the ferry back home. Later it got in the way of a farm trailer carrying manure. Lucky the sun roof wasn't open.

Next came a little blue Renault something-or-other. That one literally collapsed after a long drive to Scotland and back. I woke to find the car with the wheels splayed outwards and oil dribbling onto the floor.

Then I had a black Renault 19. Great car. Engine blew up on the M56 one tuesday morning. Every drop of water in the engine either fell on the floor or evaporated in the space of one second. How exciting!

So I bought a Renault Clio (I like Renault). One day a horse jumped on the car and managed to mangle the bonnet and the roof.

Next was a Renault Laguna. I unwisely drove this at speed into a narrow space between concrete bollards. Too narrow. Cue the car being stuck between bollards, and I had to climb out through the back seat.

Cars, you have to love them.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 20:34, 5 replies)