Cars: Why They Drive Me Mad

I must be one of the few people I know who has never wanted or needed to drive a car. Often this has caused what the professionals term “relationship difficulties”, and many a relationship has skidded into the scrapheap to the tune of, “but why couldn’t you learn … for us?” Mostly though, people just look with that mixture of pity and contempt, and ask, “But what’s wrong with you?” Well, nothing really. No major malady, infirmity, or disability debars me from taking the test – I simply don’t care to. It’s just another part of a life of lazy incompetence.

Most of the jobs I had when I left school were of the sort that don’t support the down payment on a new BMW. I didn’t get any A Levels so my choice of occupation was limited to the lower end of the public sector spectrum, things like looking after the old, the mad, and people with nowhere to live. It’s always been government policy that the best and most valued public sector workers are the ones who struggle to find 50p to keep the gas meter whirring. Fortunately I never hankered for a vehicle of any description.

By the time I was earning a bit more money I’d settled into living patterns that were in distinct opposition to car ownership. The main one being spending all my waking hours in the pub. I love pubs, and leave them only when absolutely necessary under the terms of the licensing laws. Obviously this habit makes driving both hazardous and not affordable. Logistically a car would make getting from pub to pub much easier than getting a bus, and I did enjoy pubs the length and breadth of God’s Own County, but the only way this was feasible was if somehow I found a chauffeur, or at least someone willing to stay on the soft drinks while I worked my way around the real ales on offer around the district. And so I got married and became a two car couple. Have I mentioned my “relationship difficulties?”

I can’t say I’m even tempted by the thought of driving these days. Public transport is perfectly suitable for my needs, which are few and infrequent as I tend to walk everywhere. A friend recently calculated that if I stayed out of the pubs for three months I could afford a yearly bus and rail pass. “But then, where would I go?” I said.

I almost got a bus home last night as I happened to be on the other side of town, drinking. I walked my friend Alison to her stop and promised I’d get a bus too, and I’m sure I meant it at the time. But when I got to my bus stop I found I was sharing the shelter with a man with a freshly bandaged wrist and a face about as friendly as razor wire so I decided to wander along to the next stop. By the time I got there I’d forgotten all about waiting and was almost home by the time I remembered I’d promised to get the bus. It may have had something to do with the beer.

I honestly think the world would be a better place if people in general spent less time behind a wheel and more time propping up a bar. I know where I belong.