Wednesday, 6 May 2015

I Can't Drive.

I can't drive. This year I will be 35. Hang on a second. Sorry, I just saw that last sentence and had to yell at the wall with tears streaming down my face for fifteen minutes. 35! This was very much meant to be a blog post about my relationship with driving but I may just have to rant about this whole turning 35 prick of a situation for a couple of thousand words. I mean, who is responsible for this? Am I supposed to just sit here and take this kind of treatment? There's a packet of biscuits on my desk. I've eaten two. I might as well eat the whole lot. Enjoy my last few years, eh, before I'm bundled into the incinerator for the good of the nation.

Right, driving...

No. Hang on. Election tomorrow. I will vote for any party who will pledge to freeze the ageing process. Not taxes, not energy bills, not train prices - fucking time! I want you to freeze time and I want you to do it now. Can we not put some kind of quango together to work on this bitch? You can argue over the top rate of tax all you like but no one seems to be addressing the real issue which is the fact that we've all got death running towards us at ten million miles an hour.

I realise that if you're older than me (perhaps a grandchild has just shown you how to use the internet) this is a little irritaing. Sorry. Just because you're further along in the decaying process than me it doesn't mean I can't complain. Can the people of Greece not complain just because the people of North Korea are worse off? What? Yes, I'm okay. Of course I'm thinking rationally. That was a totally measured comparison to draw. I'm fine. Honestly. DON'T TOUCH MY FUCKING BISCUITS!

Driving. Yeah, can't do that. But you know who else couldn't drive? Jesus Christ. I'm in good company. Why can't I drive? Combination of a few things. I didn't have much (any) money in my teens. Any Americans reading this may be surprised that money was a factor. Unlike in your country, we don't just hand over $50 and a smile for our licenses. You have to take proper lessons and that costs a bit.

Then I went to university, where not only did I not have any money but at no stage in those three years was I sober enough to legally drive a car. Again, Americans - I know you all think nothing of driving with the wheel in your right hand and a margarita in your left but we're a little more uptight. Think Jeffrey the butler from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

Since University, I've lived in London where driving a car is completely unnecesary and only really an invitation for people to ask you to help them move house. Fuck that.

So there's my excuses. The truth is though that I'm terrified. In five years of Craft, Design and Technology at school, all I made was a bread board. Essentially, I picked up a piece of wood that looked like a bread board, took it for one trip round a jigsaw, and called it a bread board. I don't trust myself with heavy machinery. Would you feel safe with me prowling the roads (and most likely pavements) in a ton of metal on wheels? Nah, mate. Didn't think so.

And so, here I'll sit for the next half of my life, watching you lot drive around you planet killing MONSTERS.

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