Car in Crisis
Now Playing: Shut the fuck UP you bloody noisy fucking neighbours from hell - SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Given what a distrustful, obsessive control freak I usually am about anything that matters, I persist in being amazed by the miracle of the motor car.
As a five year old, I ate too much cheese before bedtime once, and dreamt I invented the motor car. It was another 25 years before I figured out what a clutch pedal or gears did, though, despite having a 12 speed bike and a dad who explained the thing every other weekend.
Girly Twat: I was told you sometimes sold second hand cars?
Butchy Man: Yes, but we don't have anything right now.
Girly Twat: (sobbing into the telephone loudly) You don't understand .... I know nothing about cars. You don't know how easy it is to take advantage of me. If you don't promise to help me, I'll lose all my money and get a death trap. Please please help me. (outright lurching heaving sobs)
Ahh but you do understand something about cars, you manipulative minx - you just did nought to hysterical in under four seconds.
Butchy Man: (heavy sigh) Oh okay then, I'll keep an eye out for you.
There's not much that's as disempowering as having a car and knowing absolutely nothing about how it works. The awful thing is my growing propensity -- unheard of in my youth -- to try to girly my way out of it.
Girly Twat: I need to bring my car in for its MOT.
Butchy Man: Okay - It's a Volkswagen .... what?
Girly Twat: Um.
Fucking amazing. Four years of university to accredit that bloody um.
Girly Twat: Golf. Polo? Volkswagen Golf. Polo.
Listen, love, if you're going to lie so blatantly - and it is a blatant lie, you have no fucking idea what that car is - then at least try to stick to a consistent lie. Say Mini Metro. But stick to your story for at least two frigging seconds.
Butchy Man: Which is it?
Girly Twat: It's red.
It's time you did the dishes, sweetpea. Your brain is hurting. Jesus.
I first discovered this technique of being a hopeless loser, but affecting a giggle and short skirt while doing so aged about 25 (I was a late developer in the girly stakes - didn't wear pink till I was 29, and thought I better do it quick before it took on Barbara Cartland hues.) Faced with the fourteenth house move in four years, staring despondently at the huge amount of stuff that I'd piled, homeless, for one fortnight into the flat of an Uncle Charles of someone at work, I swallowed my pride and put on a bright blue mini and stilettos. I picked up one bag and clattered affectedly down the stairs when the removal men arrived. "Sorry, I'm not feeling awfully strong."
Fucking hell, should have tried that years ago... Not only did they move everything without the usual tired recriminations and blackmail, they paid for me to go eat breakfast while they did it, then sorted me out a new flat. Still, the shame of it rankled a little. I mean, it's cheating, isn't it? If you're a dyke.
Butchy Man: So, here's that secondhand motor I rang you about. Look, I'll lift the bonnet for you, okay. There.
Watch it, mate - I know this is a legal requirement, but you're getting pretty technical there. I might faint from the added pressure to my dizzy little head.
Girly Twat: Oooooooh! Is that what they look like inside?
Hey look, at least you didn't shout 'yecch! all dirty!'
Butchy Man: Do you want to test drive it now?
You can just hear the horror in his tone, can't you?
Girly Twat: Oh no, no, no, I can't drive. You'll have to test drive it for me. I'll watch.
What kind of a social fucking retard takes a car for a Test Passenge? A mincing girly twat, that's what.
Considering that I have to call the AA yellow van man out simply to change a tyre on my car, it's a fair miracle that any vehicle of mine has survived the four collisions and six break ins of the past three years since learning to drive.
Girly Twat: Excuse me? You look strong.
Butchy T-shirt Man: (assumes the startled look of a sexual harrassment victim) Unhh?
Yes, you. I'm verbally molesting you in front of your mates. You better come up with the goods, needle dick.
Girly Twat: I can't do this. (wild gesture under car bonnet.) Can you get the lid off this water tank for me? I've been trying for aaages. I hit it with the oil can but I'm too weak to....
Actual real live shame prevented me from finishing that sentence. I'm going to hell.
Butchy T-shirt Man: Grunt. (easily turns lid screw.)
Girly Twat: (bursts into applause and hops) Ooooh, thank you!
Butchy T-shirt Man: (runs)