Tailgate That!

I’m tired today. Very tired (if I put that as my status on Facebook, I can tell myself to sod off to bed). Which means there will be some more bellyaching taking place in this post.

The reason for my tiredness is that I drove down to Tiverton in Devon yesterday and after being there for about twenty minutes, drove straight back. A round trip of over five hundred miles.

Why?

My brother-in-law bought a car from eBay and that’s where he had to pick it up from. I volunteered to be his chauffeur (wait, I have lady bits, so did that make me his: chauffess? chauffeuress? chauffress? Ach, whatever). Next time he can get the bloody train.

What’s worse, he bought a Micra as he wants a cheaper-to-run alternative than his current car for his forty mile journey to work.

I begged him not to buy it, citing that; 1. he’s not an old lady; 2. it would change his driving habits and not for the better; and 3. it might be cheaper to run, but it’s a Micra.

He ignored me.

Nice to know he values my opinion.

On the way down there, I didn’t quite make it a white knuckle ride in The Beastie. Weeelll, maybe just a little bit. For a few seconds. Okay, maybe a minute. Or two. Definitely no longer than three minutes tops.

Whaaaat? I was in the outside lane on the M4, behind other cars, overtaking at a respectable 75ishmph and some twat decided he wanted to try and hitch a lift on The Beastie’s bumper.

Looking in the rear view mirror revealed no blue flashing lights, either from a marked or unmarked car. It was a plain and simple dickhead, whose arse must have been on fire, and who obviously needed to get to the next junction to find water.

One thing I cannot abide, is being tailgated while I’m overtaking.

I don’t sit in the outside lane for the hell of it, unlike some. I make full use of the lanes in the manner they’re designed for.

While I’m overtaking, and I’m being tailgated, where the feck do they expect me to go? Seriously?

Do they want me to surf the central reservation?

What about if I, and the drivers of the cars I’m overtaking (plus any passengers), collectively hold our breath in, making the vehicles taller, but narrower, enabling twathead drivers the space to get by? Would that work?

Or perhaps they expect me to flip the car sideways onto two wheels so they can get past.

I looked for the button in The Beastie that would leave the wheels on the road but raise the car enough for the tailgater to drive underneath me, Wacky Races style, but strangely enough, found the manufacturers had forgotten to install it.

Bummer.

As the road ahead of me cleared, but the traffic in the middle lane didn’t, the tailgater inched closer to count the flies on my number plate.

His in-car dowsing-nav was no doubt indicating water to save his arse could be found somewhere ahead. (“Keep left. In fifty yards take the exit. Take the exit. At the roundabout, take the third exit. Take the third exit. Keep left. Keep left. In eighty yards you have reached your destination. You have reached your destination. At the field, dig deep. Dig deep. You have found water. Or sheep wee.”)

With relish, I mentally flipped him the middle finger and put my foot down. Hah! Tailgate that!! (Even though it then made it appear as though I was the one whose arse was on fire…)

Bro-In-Law, who had been talking, went strangely quiet, and out of the corner of my eye I could see his foot pressing the brake-pedal-that’s-not-there in the passenger footwell.

Bet he wished he got the train.

I took pity on him after a while, but not before checking the dickhead was nowhere to be seen.

For the most part, I kept my driving-like-a-bat-out-of-hell urges under control, and we got to Tiverton in one piece. Although I think Bro-In-Law now has one or two extra grey hairs. And a bit of a tic.

To my disgust, Bro-In-Law paid the money for the Micra and it was decided he would lead on the drive home.

The Micra weaved its own special brand of magic on him and he drove at an average speed of approximately 60mph. On near empty motorways (look, I know it’s not the German Autobahn, but c’mon – 60 feckin’ mph? The Beastie was bored witless and I was banging my head on the steering wheel trying to stay awake). Although, I do have to say, I never realised Micras could achieve 60mph. I was sort of, reluctantly, impressed. Perhaps it’s a souped up one.

However, as a consequence of Bro-In-Law suffering from Micra Syndrome, I didn’t get to bed until 3am this morning – got home about 2am but I need to unwind after driving long distances - and didn’t get to sleep until about 4am, only to be woken by the phone ringing at 9am.

Was not happy.

My phone will be unplugged shortly, and tonight I will sleep the sleep of the well and truly knackered.

And dream of Micras on the Autobahn.

[shudder]