All mine seem to be car-related...
Anyhow, once upon a time, I'd often be found driving from Oxford to somewhere beginning with C. Down the A420 a bit from Oxford. It's been a while, OK?

The main road was a windy bit of single carriageway, with lots of nice corners and stuff. Ideal driving road, really. Anyway, one night I'm wending my weary way away from Oxford over to thingytown, when up behind me blazes some chav (except that this way early 90s, we didn't have the word then). He charges up behind me, and flicks his lights on main beam, just so I know he's there and that his cock is tiny.

I make my car nicely wide, so he can't get by. He gets more and more upset by the fact that his alleged RS Turbo is being held up by my Escort 1.3. Soon, he's waving his fist and blowing the horn at me.

Eventually, I think that it's probably time to give this game up. So, on a handy straight, I ease off, indicate left to allow him to overtake, and nudge over to the curb. He, of course, clogs his heap for all it's worth, and extends a skinny arm, beringed middle finger jabbing skywards as he floors it past me.

How do I know about the finger? Well, dear reader, it was brightly illuminated by the flash from the speed camera I'd noted the location of over the last few weeks. I'm no expert, but I'm guessing that if the officers of the law have a speed camera photo of you accelerating hard, well over the limit, and flipping them the bird, they will throw the book at you extra hard.

I'm pleased to report that I could barely walk when I arrived at my Dad's, due to the alarmingly tattered condition of my farting strings.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Sun 20 Dec 2009, 0:23, Reply)