Car Users

Anyone who has ever driven in the UK or is unfortunate enough to have to commute in this country will have no doubt noticed that there are several different categories of people who drive over here and they can usually be identified by their car. So, let's have a look a few of them shall we?



Mrs Fearful

You'll notice her because she's only sat two inches from the windscreen, she's sweating slightly, she's driving at 21mph and she looks like she's been left in control of an angry stallion. Which is ironic really considering her car has virtually no horsepower at all. She's gripping the steering wheel like a lifebelt with both hands because she knows full well that these small cars are tricky little devils and that if you break concentration for a moment, or remove one hand to change the radio station, the malevolent vehicle will spin round 90 degrees to the right and plant you into a tree. If Mrs Fearful is on the motorway, she will be in the middle lane driving at 55mph and being undertaken by 18 wheelers. There may well be a collection of cuddly toys on the parcel shelf which jars a bit because no woman in her 50s has any place playing with cuddly toys. After 20 minutes stuck behind her on a B road you'll be ready to drag her out of her car and strangle her with the seatbelt.

She will be driving: A Toyota Yaris or a Nissan Micra.





You'll hear this idiot coming a good few minutes before you see him, thanks to the fact that the boot cavity is filled with sub woofers and so everyone in a 4 mile radius is being treated to the aural delight that is his happy hardcore collection. When the car eventually comes into view you'll be surprised by the fact that Ford didn't realise that what their Focus was missing was an exhaust the size of an industrial drainage pipe and the kind of bodykit that's going to leave him stranded on the top of all but the tiniest speed hump like a dachshund on a log. There's no way round it, he drives like a twat, most probably because he is a twat. Red lights are no object to Chav-boy, he's not bothered if he gets three points on his licence because he hasn't got a licence. Or insurance. Or ownership papers for the car. Your best survival techique when around Chav-boy in the car is to let him do his dangerous overtaking move because frankly he's a fuck sight safer where you can see the gormless little tit.

He will be driving: something smallish that he's tried to make look like a Suburu by removing all the badges and adding a ridiculous spoiler and huge exhaust. As if the general public can't recognise a Corsa when they see one, even if it has been pimped to within an inch of its life.




Chav-girl's car is instantly recognisable, not only because it's bright pink but also because it's the one driving down both lanes of the road, as chav-girl's lane discipline isn't quite what it might be. Chav-girl for some reason best known to herself, thinks the Playboy bunny is the coolest logo in town and so her car has a big, pink playboy bunny on the bonnet and a 'playgirl on board' sticker in the back window. Why anyone wants to emulate a group of bimbos whose claim to fame is that they pose in the buff and aspire to sleeping with a man who makes your grandfather look like a spring chicken is anyone's guess but Chav-girl does. That's why she has the matching Playgirl handbag and watch too. Her steering wheel and seats have pink furry covers on and the overwhelming cloud of knock off perfume and air freshener combined within the interior would be enough to render a less hardy individual unconscious. It's certainly enough to put off any would-be car thief who hadn't been put off by the fact that the vehicle is a fucking awful colour. Your best survival technique would be to give Chav-girl a wide berth because she isn't actually watching the road or the other traffic, she's putting more lipgloss on in the rear view mirror and trying to find her Rihanna CD on the floor.

She will be driving: A Nissan Micra or Ford Ka, custom sprayed to a level of pink that makes your eyes bleed.





Mr Arsehole

Make no mistake, this is the biggest wanker you're going to meet on the road. Or anywhere else for that matter. He's in something corporate and in his head, he's the greatest thing ever to walk the earth. He's in a big car and as we all know, the highway code states that anyone in a big car can do whatever the fuck they like, including parking in disabled parking spaces and tailgating smaller vehicles. At least that's how Mr Arsehole remembers it anyway. If you're expecting him to indicate then you're in for a disppointment – it isn't his job to let you know what he's going to do, it's your job to just get the fuck out of the way, he is, after all, on his way to somewhere far more important than you, obviously. If the road is blocked by parked cars and there's only one lane available, don't expect him to give way to you, if you expect this to happen and move forward then your car is going to be spending the next month having the wing rebuilt. He gives way to no man and certainly no woman. Mr Arsehole is married but is sleeping with his PA. He thinks he's the greatest lover ever to grace a seedy hotel but secretly she wonders whether it might not be less miserable to just save up and buy Louboutin heels and matching handbags herself. His wife is just grateful that she doesn't have to do this particular chore any more and chuckles quietly to herself at his mistaken belief he's being discreet while enjoying the spectacle of the sad prat making a tit of himself. Again. You'll recognise Mr Arsehole on the motorway because if you're in the fast lane he'll be the cockgoblin parked on your bumper, flashing his lights and waving his arms. Much fun can be had on roads by waiting till he does this and then slowing right down to 20mph while watching what shade of red his head goes in your rear-view mirror.

He will be driving: A large BMW or a Range Rover Sport which is about as likely to ever do anything off-road as I am to walk up Everest in a bikini and a pair of Jimmy Choos.  


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6 Responses

  1. Vicola, I just have to say that Mr Arsehole is a perfectly engineered paragraph of text. His car choice happens to be the 2 vehicles I hate the most and I bow down to your superior use of our often bastardised language (ironic considering we bastardised many others to get ours!) in your complete anihilation of these people.
    Congratulations. You are the reason I laughed out loud in the office.
    By the way, in Little Hulton the other week I was at a junction where left lane could go straight or left and right lane could go straight or right. I didn't have my indicator on because I saw a "Mr Arsehole" behind me. White range rover sport. I left my indicator off even though I was going right and waited until the lights changed. He was livid. I just laughed and pootled along my merry way. Any other car, I would've indicated. This was just asking for trouble.

  2. [esto es genial]

  3. Ahhh Vicola…..this is the reason I get so much enjoyment from this blogging business.Right from the first paragraph I knew there was something special awaiting me.Wonderfully, beautifully, entertainingly written.All these characters exist in Australia too.Thank you so very much for starting off my day on a wonderful note.

  4. Well done! Everyone loves to make Mr Arsehole angry, it's one of those tiny little pleasures that make life worthwhile. Grab every opportunity you can!

  5. The reason I wrote it was because I got carved up by Mr Arsehole on the way into work. The wanker. Glad you enjoyed it, have a good bank holiday!!

  6. Glad to be of service. I suspected that other countries may be inflicted with these prats as well and now my fears have been confirmed…

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