Mouthy Broad

Road rage

Remember on Wednesday when you took the corner too quick on an amber and the lady on the diagonal sat on her horn so long your ears are still ringing? That was me.

Or, last night, you parked your fat tyre across the white line and took up two parks at Kmart instead of one. When you got back to your loser-cruiser there was an offensive message left in the dust on the back window. Me.

Or, yesterday, you over-took that hatch-back coming past Awatoto and you got the middle finger. Also me.

I have a problem with driving. Not my own of course – my driving is impeccable – yours. And every other person from Wairoa to Waipawa.

I don’t hate other drivers, I love them. I love that they do things that give me a burst of adrenaline to fuel a decent “Fuck you!”. I love that I can blow off steam, shout obscenities at you and you can’t hear me. And I have Jim Mora and The Panel up so loud neither can I really, but it feels good.

I go looking for opportunities to rage on the road. Excellent intersections that guarantee quality consternation are the corner of Grove and Karamu, and the point where Georges Drive meets Kennedy Road. Try turning right at those and you’ll be ranting too. At the latter, I once got pulled over for ‘tutting’. A police officer was coming in one direction, me the other. He swooped around in front (turning right) and frazzled me. So I tooted. Knocking my tongue on my upper palette, I waggled my pointer and shook my head. Next thing, he’s throwing a u-ie and coming up behind. I pull over my jalopy. He gets out of his. Walks up, tells me to wind down the window, waits. About six minutes later … (I was driving a 1989 Honda Civic at this stage and those winders stick like a (insert favourite slur here) ... glowering over his aviators, he says, in his best ‘Ponch and Jon’ voice: “Did you just tut me?”

It doesn’t take much to get people riled. If they’re in the mood for argybargy it just takes a miss-timed bit of passive-aggression. And, most of the time I am not passive-aggressive when it comes to berating my fellow-commuters, I’m just aggressive.

My main beef is suburban monster trucks: those massive (br)utes that belong in the Outback, roo-shooters mounted on the mud guards, tyres up to my hip, cab so high you need a nerf bar to clamber in. Perfect for the trek up to the Village for some seal-skin loafers, or the blat down to Vetro for goose-liver pate. Perfect too for driving straight over my 1997 Suzuki Swift (I’ve upgraded since the Civic) without even noticing. Not for those gas-guzzlers are judder bars, chicanes or even the curb … these all-terrain hell-hounds simply ride right on over.

I’d shake my fist at each and every one but none would notice, they’ve got that many blind spots.

I don’t mind old people driving. You know where you are with old drivers: You’re behind them and you’re going to be late. Old people deserve the right to choose whichever lane they like … take both! Old people deserve to ignore zebra crossings. Or better still park up at them and wait ‘til a pedestrian comes along just so they can do one of those Shakespearean flourishes that screams chivalry without saying a word. Plus, anyone over 80 has to redo their licence every year so they’re all probably better drivers than you or me.

For their driving test, there should be a special section for anyone domiciled in the ‘Stings, entitled Roundabouts. We have 63 of them in Hastings and we still don’t know how to use them correctly. It’s simple, really.

Come up to the roundabout, ascertain whether you will be exiting the roundabout at less or more than a 180 degree angle, indicate left for yes, or right if the angle is X-180, X being a sum total of the angle at which you first entered said roundabout divided by the number you first thought of. As you prepare to exit the roundabout subtract the first sum by 180 to the power of 4 and multiply that by the angle of the road, then indicate accordingly. Whatever you do, don’t flick your blinker just after you leave the roundabout, it’s an indicator not a confirmator, you bull’s pizzle.

I could mount a campaign (on a traffic island obviously). Or march in the streets (keeping safely to the footpath). But instead, I shall rise above it.

If you can’t beat the beasts who think they own the road, you’ve got to join them. So I’m moving up to the biggest, boldest, bolshiest behemoth in town. From there I can look down on the lot of you (literally). I can shake my fist, waggle my finger; I can curse you, critique your skills, and question where you even got your licence (back of a cereal box?). Plus, it only costs me $3 to go from here to there and back again.

Yes, you got it. From now on, I’m taking the bus.

I have a problem with driving. Not my own of course – my driving is impeccable – yours. And every other person from Wairoa to Waipawa.

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