The Day My Car Tried To Kill Me (Part 2)

So (as reported in my previous post) my car is in a ditch / hedgerow at the side of the road and I'm required to crawl out of the passenger door to call for assistance. I phone the police first: they're not that interested as I haven't hurt anybody else or damaged any property beyond my own. Next I call the roadside recovery people. "Someone will be with you within the hour." So all I have to do now is wait. Wait, and thank / reassure the people who stop to ask after my well-being.

I'm heartened by the amount of people who do stop. "Are you all right, lad?" "Do you need to borrow a phone to call for help?" "What happened?" Their mix of concern and curiosity gives me hope for the human race. At first. There's an edgy moment when the farmer whose field I'm encroaching stops by to check on the well-being of his fence, but he seems satisfied I've not done more damage and thankfully doesn't begin demanding reparations.

Then, after a while, my inner Larry David starts to take hold. It's a sad fact that even good will gets annoying after a while. By the time the 10th person has pulled over to check me out and hear the story ("I don't know what happened - the steering just went"), I start making a conscious effort to look unapproachable. Blasé or uncommunicative or stern or scary... whatever will keep them driving so I don't have to answer any more questions. Where is that bloody tow truck? How the hell can people get on my nerves even when they're just being kind? OK: I'm shaken, I'm fed up, I'm seriously worried about how this accident will affect my finances... but that's still no reason to be so grumpy, is it?

"You all right, lad?"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"

Sigh. I really must try to be a better person.

The Day My Car Tried To Kill Me (Part 1)

Driving to Barnsley yesterday morning to do my teacher training, my car decided it'd had enough of boring, conventional, "square" roads and would much rather drive off into the hedgerow. For reasons yet to be ascertained, taking a sharp bend on a narrow country lane the steering wheel refused to respond and rather than continuing in the direction I was supposed to be travelling, I ended up crossing the road and driving down into a ditch, at a 45 degree angle, stopped only by a thick, spiky hedge and a farmer's barb wire fence. It wasn't that I skidded taking the bend, I've done that on icy or wet roads before and what generally happens when you try to correct the skid is that the back end of the car spins round and you end up facing back in the opposite direction. But there was no skid here: the road conditions were good and my tyres had plenty of tread. What happened instead was that the steering simply ceased to work and the car carried on forwards rather than completing its turn.

Thankfully I wasn't going particularly fast so the brakes and the hedge were sufficient to stop me from rolling the car over onto its roof. I'm just glad there was nobody else on the road or that I wasn't travelling in a built up area or on a motorway. I can't help thinking I've had a lucky escape: for all that my car is scratched and crumpled and broken, this could have been a far worse accident.

However, this is the final straw. I've had enough of this car now. It's one problem after another. I can hardly afford another one, but I can't afford to keep paying to have it fixed either... and I don't trust it any more. When the trust is gone, the relationship is over. If I can't even rely on it to stay on the road, it's time to say goodbye. When your car starts trying to kill you, put it out of its misery before it has another go.

Apologies to the poor roadside recovery man who had to crawl through a spiky hedge to attach the tow rope to pull the bloody thing out of the hedgerow - his arms were lacerated. And to the farmer whose fence I damaged, who was decent enough to show more concern for my welfare than the state of his field. I promise you both: that bloody car will see justice.

How To Make Red Traffic Lights Turn Green

File this one under The Universe Hates Me.

And no, this isn't a post about flashing temporary traffic lights to get them to change green because that's what ambulance drivers do in times of emergency. Does that ever work? This is a post about how even traffic lights are out to get me. And probably you too: you just don't realise it yet.

You know how it goes. You're on your way somewhere, probably in a hurry because you got way too distracted by something utterly pointless* or really quite life-changing on the internet before setting off. And every traffic light is either stuck on red or changes to crimson as you approach.

Well, here's how to get them to change to green. It's simple. And it virtually always works for me.

Start doing something else.

It can't be just anything, mind you. It can't be something you could also do while driving. (Sorry - picking your nose is out.) It has to be something you could only do (safely) while stationary.

Tying your shoelace.

Writing down an idea for a short story.

Checking a message on your phone.

Fetching that pork pie which rolled out of your shopping bag and underneath the passenger seat.

Reading an exciting poster about how to get free things in a shop window.

Getting a different CD out of the glove compartment.

Something that could easily fall into the category of "while I'm waiting here, unable to do anything else, and it's now safe to do so, why don't I...?"

Because the second you start doing something like that... often the very moment you even decide to do it in the first place... that's when the traffic lights will turn back to green. If you hadn't decided to do that thing, if you'd just sat there glaring at the red light, willing it to change, wishing your life was a Housemartins song, you'd still be sat there now. Because life's like that.

The universe hates us.

(*Only joking, Steve.)

I Am Electro!

For months now, I've been afraid to shut my car door. Not when I'm inside, shutting it from the inside is fine because it's got a nice plastic handle that I can pull closed with no harm to my person.

Shutting it from the outside though, that's quite a different matter. Because when I do... sparks fly. Touching the metal door after I've been driving causes me a shock. It's not a problem with the car's electrics, it's a problem with me... and static electricity. It happens at various other times throughout the day - I get static electric shocks from coat hooks, tables, even... Louise! But it's worst when I get out of the car. So I had to take action.

Someone suggested buying one of those anti-static strips that hang down from the rear of your car and drag along the road behind you - the ones with a lightning bolt design you used to see on just about every car when I was a kid. My mum always told me these were to help people with car sickness. ("Do you remember your friend Liam? He used to get car sick all the time." Vague, blurry memories of Liam at the side of the road with a paper bag... there's nothing wrong with Mum's long term memory.) Apparently there's a theory that car sickness is caused by the build up of static electricity in the atmosphere or something...

Well, that's as maybe. And maybe those strips do help people with car sickness. But do they help prevent my electrocution? Let's find out, shall we...?

Yeoooooowchh!

That'll be a 'no' then.

Anyone else got any bright ideas?

My Car Hates Me

Every time I think I'm getting on top of my finances, paying off my debts, that I might actually have a little spare change to fritter away on comics or mindless ephemera at the end of the month, my car comes along and knees me in the goolies. And it doesn't even have a knee.

I bought this car a little over three years ago. Aware that it'd probably be the last time I could afford such a purchase for a long, long time (knowing I was about to buy a house and take on all the associated gubbins), I asked for recommendations as to the most cost-effective vehicle I could buy. My main criteria was I wanted a vehicle that wouldn't always be in the garage requiring hefty repair bills - I've had enough Fords to know how they yearn for the company of greasy floors and grubby overalls... and don't even start me on the Seat that stole my life savings. (And it called itself a "Friend"!)

Toyota was the consensus. Toyota is reliable. You won't go wrong with a Toyota. And indeed, a few minor teething problems aside, the Toyota did me right. Until the warranty expired...

The first service I took it for post-warranty cost me £600. And that wasn't even at a main dealer. I was still wincing from that a few months later when the gearbox packed in. Another £500. Last summer it needed a new exhaust which caused me no end of trouble thanks to the useless muppets at KweekFeet. A month ago I took it in for a puncture repair and ended up needing another two new tyres on top. And now the catalytic converter is cracked. £420, including fitting and VAT. (At least the damned thing wasn't affected by the big Toyota Recall of last summer... though if it had been, I would have been able to claim it back.) And don't even start me on the price of petrol...

The worst of it is, the car seems to know. It knows when I have spare cash. Last year when my parents were kind enough to give me some cash to help with the new house... less than a week later the gear box exploded. I got some money for Christmas... and the tyres needed changing. My birthday cash... three days later, it's all gone... and then some.

I know it's crazy to anthropomorphosize a hunk of inaminate metal, but it's not like a car that hates its owner is entirely without precedent. Take Christine. Or The Car. Or even Chugga-Boom. I'm telling you though, if the bloody thing doesn't start treating me a little better, I'm trading it in... for an Audi.






(That was a joke, obviously. I cannot afford an Audi. Even if I could, I can't afford for right-thinking people everywhere to consider me an utter, utter c*** every time I sit behind the wheel. Apologies to those of you who are offended by vile four letter words. I promise not to write 'Audi' again unless I absolutely have to.)

Friday Flash - Highway Hypnosis

I went seriously over-budget on this week's #fridayflash short story, for which I can only apologise. But a self-imposed limit of 1000 words only takes you so far, and rules are there for breaking. This one's for anyone who doesn't remember their journey home from tonight... I hope you enjoy it.

Highway Hypnosis


They call it ‘highway hypnosis’. You’ve probably experienced it yourself. You set off driving on a route you’ve taken dozens if not hundreds of times before and before you know it you’ve arrived. Except you don’t remember a single thing about the journey. Not the people you’ve passed nor the landmarks, none of the shops, offices, parks, animals, billboard advertisements, not even the other motorists who make driving so unpleasant. Maybe one of the songs you heard on the radio is still tickling your mind, but you don’t recall listening to it or singing along, you certainly don’t remember hearing the DJ introduce it. It’s all just a blank.

You don’t even remember the people you killed along the way.

My journey home takes 45 minutes in rush hour. It’d be an hour if I took the main road, but I’ve learnt the back routes now. Rat runs, Rachel calls them. Rachel works five minutes from home, she isn’t trapped in her car surrounded by morons for two hours every day. Up past the scrap yard, left into the housing estate with the speed bumps, cut through the traffic lights at the supermarket, up the hill past the cemetery, left round the back of the Fox & Hound, then… you don’t need to know all this. All you need to know is where the bodies were found.



The first was last Tuesday. By the gasworks. Happened round ten to six, they said on the news. Hit and run. The police were appealing for witnesses because nobody‘d seen a thing. Some teenager in a hoodie and a baseball cap. Why would you wear both?

“They didn’t say anything about what he was wearing,” said Rachel. She was taking off her face in the mirror. “How did you…?”

“I must have seen him,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “Ten to six…? I probably passed him just before it happened.”

“Maybe you should call the police. If you saw something…”

“What? I don’t even remember. I mean, I have an idea what he was wearing – but I don’t know where I saw him or even if… it might have been somebody else entirely. It probably was. I certainly didn’t see him run over…”

What I did remember was that same kid throwing a snowball at my car three weeks earlier. Nearly smashed the windscreen. But how did I know it was the same kid? How was I so sure?



The following evening I snapped out of my trance long enough to register the portable POLICE: ACCIDENT sign standing on the pavement. I started thinking back, trying to remember something besides the hoodie and the baseball cap, and the next thing I knew I was pulling up outside the house.

“There’s been another one,” Rachel shouted down from the bedroom later. She was watching the portable telly while she worked out.

“Another what?” I shouted back. I was playing Halo on the X-box. I could have done without the interruption.

“Hit and run. Just round the corner, by the offie – ten past six. Some old bloke walking his dog. The dog was alright, but…” She came downstairs in her exercise gear, sweat shining her forehead. When I saw the look she gave me, I almost lost a life. “Just before you got home…”

“What?” I paused the game. “You think I did it? I’ve turned into some kill-crazy lunatic who’s cutting down pedestrians in my rush to get home and have my fish fingers? Really?”

“No,” she said, squeezing into the lazy boy and folding her legs over mine. “What I think is, maybe you ought to be careful – that’s all. If there’s some nutter out there…”

I didn’t hear the rest. I’d just remembered what sort of dog it was. A Red Setter. My old physics teacher, Mr. Beaumont, he’d had that dog since he retired. I hoped he treated it better than he did his pupils.



By Monday, I was starting to panic. I’d tried staying alert on Thursday and Friday, but it was impossible. You’ll know what I mean if you do the same journey every night. It was partly boredom, partly all the work shit swimming round in my head, partly the fact that I hadn’t got a wink of sleep. I kept thinking about the Audi driver who’d been forced off the bridge onto the railway tracks, and the traffic warden who’d been run down then reversed over repeatedly to finish the job. I could see their faces in my mind. I recognised them both from my past, but beyond that: nothing. Still no witnesses either – even though the traffic warden died on a crowded high street, right outside the chemists. Nobody saw or remembered a thing. That night, it happened again. Eddie Gibson walked out of The Red Lion and under a car that never even slowed. A gaggle of smokers outside the pub, yet none of them saw anything. Eddie Gibson was Rachel’s ex-husband. She was shocked when she heard, but couldn’t pretend she was sorry. The bruises might have faded, the memories never would.



So now it’s Tuesday, and while I’m topping up my wiper fluid after work, I notice the dents in my bumper. The cracks in my number plate. The scrapes of black and spots of crimson. I try rubbing them off with my sleeve. There’s a sticky patch with hair and little white chips… pebbles? They must be pebbles.

“Still here, Robert? Scared of driving home in case the Rat Run Exterminator gets you? Wooo!” Darren Armitage: works in accounts, biggest knob in the building, proud of it. “Follow me if you like – I’ll protect you!”

Normally I’d tell him exactly where to get off, but not tonight. Tonight I don’t even acknowledge him. I'm not aware of getting in my car. I'm not aware of starting the engine or screeching out of the car park. The next thing I know for sure is the roadblock. Four incidents in as many days, the police aren’t taking any more chances. They’re stopping every car. Questioning every driver. I see Darren pulled over up ahead, and I wind down my window to listen.

“Do you drive this route every night, sir? Have you noticed anything suspicious? Anyone driving erratically or even dangerously…? Think hard now, people’s lives are at stake.”

It was the questions they didn’t ask that worried me more. While one officer questioned Darren, another inspected his car. I knew exactly what they were looking for. Exactly what they’d find, soon as they got to me. Why hadn’t I turned round and gone back the other way while I still had the chance?

“Sir?” Suddenly I’m at the front of the queue and I don’t know how I got here. I’m waiting for the policeman to start with the questions when I realise he’s already finished. His colleague gives him another nod. It’s all over. “You can drive on now, sir.”

“Th… thank you, officer.” How could they be letting me go? How could they not have seen…?

I don’t stick around for answers. I floor the accelerator and I’m home before I know it. I get out of the car and dash into the house to fill a bucket in the sink. Wash the evidence away. I got lucky one time, there’s no way I’ll get away with it again. I run back out, slopping soapy water down my trouser leg, and that’s when I notice the damage. The front of the car's all smashed up. Radiator concertinaed into the engine block. Far worse than the scratches I'd seen earlier – amazing it would still drive. I try to think back, but all I remember is the roadblock. The police letting me go. After that… nothing till I arrived home. Not a thing…

“What’s wrong with you?” It’s Rachel. I hadn’t heard her. She’s parked in front of me. She stares down at where I’m sitting in the road.

“The car…” I try to say, “the car…”

“What’s wrong with it?”

I stare back. I can feel the tears running down my cheeks. Can’t she see?

“Well, I suppose it could use a wash, but it’s hardly worth getting upset about…”

And that’s when I finally twig. My highway hypnosis – it doesn’t just affect me. It affects everyone.

We hear about Darren later that night. Flattened into a brick wall in his Merc while an off-duty policeman stood watching. A professional eye witness who neither remembers what he saw nor can possibly explain how it happened.

Quote Me Unhappy

So my car insurance renewal letter arrives. As usual, it's gone up massively from what I paid last year for no reason whatsoever. So I'm straight online to find a cheaper quote... which I do, within minutes.

I then have to call up the old insurance company and tell them I'm not renewing.

"Oh... sorry to hear that... can I ask why?"

"Because I found a much cheaper quote elsewhere."

"Oh, so it's purely a cost decision? If we could reduce your quote, might you consider staying with us?"

"I doubt you'll reduce it by fifty quid."

"Oh... perhaps not... we could probably come down by thirty or forty..."

The thing is, if my renewal had come through £40 less and I'd gone online to find I could only save a tenner, I probably would have stayed with them. But now they've quoted my £40 more than they actually need to just because they're greedy, that boat has sailed.

And yet, this happens every single year. There must be enough people out there who just automatically renew their insurance, whatever the quote, to make it worthwhile for the robbing bastards to carry on like this. And the best of it is, they actually sound hurt when you tell them you're cancelling.