20 Dec 2009

Snow Time for Jokes

It's 10am and I'm in a warehouse. I had to get up at 7.30 this morning to be here in time to sit around for hours waiting for a lorry, and the overarching theme of the day so far has been what the fuck is the point in mornings. I appreciate that most people will see them as a necessary prefix to the day and all the disappointment that will contain, but for me they just seem like evidence of us wanting to punish ourselves. What kind of people have we become when we think, 'right, brilliant, it's dark and cold, what I really want to do is leave my bed and spend the next ridiculous amount of hours standing.'

Not that I have spent any time standing yet, come to think of it; my day so far having consisted of rolling out of bed into shoes, a hat and a car, before transitioning gently into another chair facing the internet in my friend's office. Thanks to the ice, I haven't even had to use my legs. I've just glided from one reclined position to another twenty-six miles away. Indeed, the only exercise I've had so far today is craning my neck to shout at reality-impaired four-by-four drivers who seem blissfully unaware that their cars are the most equipped on the road to cope with icy roads, and yet who seem to feel the need to slow to five miles an hour at every fucking roundabout, corner, and child in the road. If someone like me, who essentially drives what is a cigarette tin on wheels, is shouting at you to hurry the fuck up, there is probably something seriously wrong with your driving and brain function.

Go faster.

Not that it wasn't fun driving past broken down and broken spirited motorway users on the way here. Oh, it was. We delighted in the white, middle class 'nightmare' of today's life losers like they had personally slapped our children. It's the pseudo-drama of it all that makes it so amusing. It's snowing, one of England's most rarely observed meteorological phenomena, and it's fucking beautiful. The world, right now, looks like some kind of lovely meringue, yet people moan about the several hours that stretched out their commute to work. Well, who the fuck cares. I think it's funny you hit a tree. I've read several apocalyptic articles this morning about the terrible time had by thousands of motorists who had to sleep in their cars overnight. I did this last week for recreation. Sure, you wake up Z-shaped and feeling like you've been catching lead hammer rain with your body all night but it's entirely sensible. Once you've realigned the few dislodged vertebrae that have migrated to your elbows and levered the handbrake from your anus, it's actually rather bracing waking up in a car. It reminds you of a time when we didn't have houses, or electricity, or central heating and we all lived in our cars.

If you don't like it that much then you shouldn't be driving in what, quite frankly, are hilarious driving conditions. What other time of the year can you car-kiss perfect strangers like they're your best bumper buddies and get away with it? It's brilliant, although I appreciate it might be more fun when your car is worth the same amount as a tin of tuna rather than, for comparison's sake, a tinned tuna factory. Oh, you've got a nice car? Well, that's your fault. Nobody made you choose a car that you care about more than a second child in China. Yes, you've got seat warmers and working doors but you've also got a time bomb of a heart murmur that's aggravated every time you worry that someone's going to scratch it with their pointy trousers in Sainsbury's car park. If my car was stolen, I'd be more upset about the biscuits I'd left in the glove box.

No sign of the lorry yet so I'm going to ask if I can drive the forklift. I want some practice before I go out crashing tonight.

By the way, I drive this hunk of fun:

Two lessons here: 1.) Don't leave your car keys on the pub table. 2.) Don't have friends.