I don’t drive. There are many reasons for this. Mainly cos I’d be shit at it. The few times I’ve tried I screamed a lot and flailed. Probably best not to flail while driving. Anyway, yes, I’d be shit at it, and also, partly mainly, cos I don’t trust ANYBODY else out there in the world who can drive a vehicle. I’ve seen some crazy-ass driving by some crazy-ass drivers, and by all accounts, even the most sensible of folk can become mentalissimo when placed behind the wheel of a hunk of moving metal. So. I know I’ll be a shit driver, therefore, I don’t drive. Other people are not so scrupulous. And, today, I can safely say the same about some cyclists.
Maybe I’m not the best candidate for driving lessons, but I do know some basic highway code shizzle. And when I say basic, I mean BASIC. Like, BAAAAASIC. Innit. Namely: red light means stop. I know that. Red = stop. Always. It means STOP for all of us. For me, and you, you, and you. And especially YOU, Mr Cyclist, who nevertheless decided today that the red light actually meant fark all to him and his two-wheeled machine of doom. Idiot. Thankfully, nothing happened. But it almost so very did. Had I stepped onto the road – guided by the green man – a moment earlier, then Mr Cyclist and his cunting bike would have ploughed into the buggy carrying my daughter. All because he couldn’t be ARSED to stop at a farking RED LIGHT.
As it was, he went through the stop signal, round the corner and passed within a hand’s breadth of the front of the buggy, close enough for me to exclaim out loud, and for the old lady just behind me to audibly gasp in anticipation of a collision.
Like I said, no collision. But I was shaken up something rotten. Just to torture myself, I imagine what might have happened had Mr Cyclist swerved or, I dunno, he had been a car or something. Doesn’t really bear thinking about. Farking idiot.
I’m not saying all cyclists are bastards. No way. Just that one. I hexed him as he cycled away. So he should be getting a nice fresh bout of penis rot soon. Along with squiffy-eye, mouldy ear drum, and leaping gonad boils. Only the best hexes for an irresponsible vehicularist.
Ah I feel better now. That’s been niggling at me all afternoon. Nowt like a bout of pedestrian rage to invoke a teensy bit of venting. Now it’s your turn. Road rage? Pedestrian rage? Who has pissed you off on the glorious byways of Britain today?
Moo’s only 14 months old but I think it is important to teach her how to cross the road properly, so if we’re out and she’s on her reins or I’m carrying her, I always talk her through the Green Cross Code.
Today, on returning from the park…
Me: [to Moo, standing on kerb waiting to cross our road]: Now make sure you look both ways and listen for cars as well.
Old man, having sneaked up beside us: You don’t need to look both ways, it’s a one way road!
Me: [opens mouth to retort]
Just then, a van drives past THE WRONG WAY.
Old man: He’s going the wrong way.
Me: [to Moo] AND THAT’S WHY YOU LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS THE ROAD
We cross the road.
POETIC FUCKING JUSTICE. INNIT.