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Here in my car
 
 
 
 
 

There are three staple subjects for people who write for men’s magazines. They are, arranged in order of importance: women, football and cars. I have no idea how I ever managed to get a column in a men’s magazine, because I have about as much interest in writing about these three things as I do in writing for Model Train Monthly.

Don’t get me wrong. Staring at / chasing after / desperately humiliating yourself in front of women is a fine and noble profession. It’s just that writing about women rarely, if ever, ascends above the level of “Fwwwwwoooooarrrgh! Cop a load of those corkers!” Though it would be easy to fill a page with these kind of observations, I think my journalistic reputation could suffer as a result.

Football, on the other hand, is a subject with about as much appeal as unedited footage of Irina Columbeanu’s first birthday party. The closest I ever get to taking an interest in football is supporting the opposing team in England’s world cup games, just to infuriate the Neanderthals who pass for football fans in my country.
And cars? Oh dear. Let’s just say that all of the worst experiences I’ve had during the past month have, without exception, been connected to cars.            
“Here in my car, I feel safest of all,” sang the fortune-squandering pop-star Gary Numan in his 1979 hit. I have to disagree. Whenever I’m in a car, I feel absolutely fucking terrified - to the extent that I almost have to equip myself with a pair of incontinence pants before setting foot in one.            
There are some very good reasons to be against cars. Given that (unless you happen to work for Shell) everybody has pretty much accepted that a fiery ecological Armageddon is staring us in the face, it seems rather unbelievable that there are still people who worship these fume-spouting machines. It seems rather unbelievable that Americans still think it’s acceptable to drive around in cars the size of fast-food outlets. And it seems rather unbelievable that people haven’t started giving the international ‘wanker’ sign to the small number of people in Romania trying to compensate for their comically tiny genitals by driving round in a Hummer.            
In any case, these aren’t my real reasons for not liking cars. The reason I don’t like cars is because I’m terrified of them.            
Driving in Romania scares the shit out of me. Not only am I forced to drive on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, and change gear with the wrong hand, I’m also obliged to drive on, what in England, would be considered “off-road” conditions. During the last month the following car-based disasters struck me:            
1) After deciding it was high time to get used to driving in Romania, I borrowed a friend’s car and set off for some countryside destination. After weaving through Bucharest traffic for just terrifying five minutes, I turned the car round, gave the car back and walked home. Rather humiliating.
2) One quiet Sunday morning, momentarily thinking myself to be back in Manchester, I took the junction at Piata Unirii on the wrong side of the road. Chaos ensued.            
3) Somewhere deep in the forests of Bistrita, my co-driver hit a rock, ruptured the oil-tank, and had to walk five kilometres before being able to phone for help.            
4) On the Constanta-Mangalia highway, I had to demand that our (drunken) taxi-driver leave us by the side of the road after he managed to lock the wheels and skid round two corners whilst travelling at 160km/h. We hitch-hiked the rest of the way. Cars are clearly out to get me.
The worst part of it is that I’ve come to a sudden realisation. Despite all my deeply-held convictions, I actually need to buy a car. It’s a bit like being a helpless alcoholic. You know it’s wrong, you don’t want to do it, but in the end there’s a certain inevitability to it - you’re going to have a car whether you want to or not (just like you’re going to start that second bottle of whiskey at 09:30 in the morning). And at the moment, it looks like the fanciest car I’m going to be able to afford was made in 1974 and is made out of reinforced cardboard.
I’ve never really understood the clearly demonstrable connection between women and cars. It seems to me a bit like dating a woman for her extensive shoe collection. In any case, once I get my new car, I think I’m going to have to lower my expectations a little when it comes to the fairer sex. Unless, of course, there are many women out there with a fetish for visibly palpitating men who drive Trabants on the wrong side of the road.