Road Rage

This is my happy face!So driving...

I've been doing that for a while now. I'm not exactly qualified and I've yet to take my theory test, let alone do the part where you have to impress a soggy old man with your mind blowing manoeuvre, mirror, signal skills (I think that was the right order), but I've certainly been doing it a while. Long enough in fact, that if I were an authority in charge of handing out licences to commit road rage, I would think twice before putting one in my grubby little mitts. 

Not because I'm a bad driver, far from it. I actually think that I'm pretty good at this lark. Not to beat my own trumpet or anything, but I make three point turns an art form and laugh in the face of people who struggle to parrell park. No, the problem with driving is all the other fuckers.

I'm certainly sure in the future I will be the complete definition of a hypocrite, but when you're learning to drive and you have an instructor forcing you to drive to the letter, it can be simply infuriating to see how bad everyone else is doing it. How some of these deaths waiting to happen got a licence in the first place is anyones guess, when apparently I can fail my test for simply touching the line in a parking bay. 

And then when you're not imaging the 999 phone call for the flaming wreckage likely to happen in front of you at any moment, you have to cope with the roads themselves, designed by people that were clearly taking some sort of psychotic drug at the time. Between the record number of speed bumps, enlarged pavements thats make it impossible to have two lanes of traffic moving at the same time and traffic lights simply everywhere, it's a shocker that people get anywhere.

To help matters, I've also noticed that local councils seem to believe that people simply can't be trusted with zebra crossing anymore, because they are quickly replacing them one by one with traffic lights.

And all this is without mentioning roundabouts, a unique idea in which you "trust" that everyone else knows left from right and gives way at the right time. You'd have better luck seeing someone clean their hands in a fast food restaurant's dump station.

So there you have it. I've become a cranky old bastard. Perfect.