Driven to Destruction................... A tale of woah, that is my driving ability (or rather lack of it)
Now Playing: Car Song (Elastica), In Your Car (Kenickie), Drivng In My Car (Madness)
Topic: The Automobile
It's Wednesday afternoon, and certainly not for the first time in my life, I have just heard the immortal phrase, "I'm really sorry, but you haven't passed your driving test on this occasion". Now, to have heard this once in your life, is fairly upsetting. But, to have heard this eight times in your life, it feels downright conspirital.
And so, it would seem that I had indeed failed my driving test for the eighth time.
I felt things had been going well, right up until I had got into a conversation with the instructor about booking holidays on the Internet. The instructor had very little knowledge of computers, and as I tend to use a computer for work, he felt I should have a full and complete working knowledge of the dangers and pitfalls of booking online.
"Do I need an email address then, as I don't actually have one".
"Yes, you need an email address, but you can should be able set one up for free".
"Oh right, how do I do that then? Left here".
"Well, you can set one up..."
"No, left here, there's a whole line of traffic in front of you".
Shit! I slammed on the breaks, narrowly missing the Merc in the left hand lane.
"Now, whatever you do, you don't want to go hitting that Merc. As they cost money".
Really, well cheers for that.
From that moment on, I started to get that sinking feeling. Had I blown it again? Meanwhile the instructor, continued to babble on about booking his holiday online, while I tried to concentrate on the road in front.
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"Now, I bet you thought it was that incident at the junction", continued the instructor, as I sat in the car, listening with dread to the debriefing. Well, yes. Of course I thought it was the incident at the junction. Because, you wouldn't f##king shut up about booking your holiday.
"Well, no I'll give you that one. Cos, that was partly my fault".
Oh, well that's alright then.
"No the reason you failed your test is because you failed to stick to the recommended speed limit".
Speeding? Me? Rubbish! I never once went over 30.
"Only once did you get any where near 30".
Oh.
"At one point you were going slower that the cyclist you were trying to overtake".
Yes. But that was because I was trying not to crush him against the row of parked cars along the side of the road, pal!
"It wouldn't be worth your while getting a car, the speed you drive".
Right. And so it seems that I drive like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. But surely it's better to be cautious, than to drive round like a lunatic?
"Look mate. I prefer it that your cautious, than someone who drives like a maniac. But driving slowly can be dangerous too. I'm not being funny, but you'd be better off getting a push bike".
Hilarious, I'm sure you'll agree.
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Can I just point out, that I have long been the undisputed family record holder for the number of failed driving tests (and in fact, probably the undisputed record holder of many families for failed driving tests), previously set by cousin who failed 6 tests in all (but has since claimed she passed on her fourth attempt, which is kind of like rubbing salt in the wounds).
My, (how shall I describe it?), somewhat uneasy relationship with the automobile, dates back, as it tends to do with most people in this country, to my 17th birthday. Although maybe it can be traced as far back as when my elder sister decided to take a ride outside a moving vehicle while being driven to playgroup (probably before they had such fancy things as child locks, it was the late 70s after all). My sister was fortunately unscathed by the incident (the car was probably only going about 5 miles an hour at the time), but the resulting rise in my Mothers blood pressure, was enough to ensure I arrived on this earth several days early.
Anyway, as seemed to be the trend at the time (and probably still is), my parents gifted me my first set of driving lessons for my 17th birthday. Most teenagers are probably thrilled with the prospect of getting into a car, and 'burning rubber' up and down the neighbourhood, and crashing through their neighbour’s front window. I however, was less than keen.
As suggested, this could well be psychological. I'm prepared to admit that my sisters little adventure as a toddler probably had very little to do with it, but what may have been a factor, was my collision with a car at the age of 12, when it was customary to run hell for leather across busy roads, dodging oncoming traffic. While my friends made it across the road unscathed, I completely misjudged the time it would take for me to get across the road in relation to how far away the car was. And so, I ended up spread eagle on the road, my rucksack with rugby kit (we had P.E that day), absorbing most of the impact.
And the one thing going through my head as was I sped away to hospital in the back of the ambulance, was "oh bugger, I'm going to miss Knightmare!"(Knightmare was a children's fantasy role-playing style game show, screened on ITV). Rest assured, any damage done was minimal.
Was this incident enough to scar me in later life? Or was I just, generally shit?
(Notice how I used shit in the past tense. Oh, how they laughed!)
My first driving instructor bore an uncanny likeness to the villainous Emmerdale character, Eric Pollard, which did little to encourage me on those maiden voyages, as it was around that time that he'd been burying his wife six feet under the ground. The fictional soap character that is, not the very real driving instructor. Eric, as we'll call him (the instructor), was something of a fierce, brash man, who didn't mind mincing his words, regardless of the mental state of the novice driver. Then again, this may have just been me, as one of my school friends at the time, Colin, had also had him as an instructor, had got on famously with him, and had passed his test first time. Alas, I got no where near even contemplating taking a test in that formative period, as after a mere three lessons of bad steering, bad gear changing, and bad breaking, I decided that it wasn't to be, especially as he'd said in no uncertain terms that I was a shit driver, after I'd almost steered straight through the neighbours front garden.
And so, much to my parents’ displeasure (although, possible my fathers relief, as god knows what I'd have done driving his car), the automobile and I parted company for the next five years, until I had returned from my time at University.
My next instructor, was a dead ringer for the now sadly deceased DJ, and king of the voice-overs, Tommy Vance, even down to the silver hairy, dark glasses, and leather jacket. Unfortunately, the broad west country accent kind of spoilt the illusion somewhat, but I'm sure on his days off, he would drive around the streets of Thornbury, waving at passers by, stopping to sign the odd autograph, or open the odd school fete, or even like a real DJ, spin the odd tune. Now, Tommy (as we shall call him), was something of a 20 a day guy (the instructor that is, not the DJ. Although, then again Tommy Vance might well have been a 20 a day guy as well, I have I no idea). Which meant, I could quite often tell how bad the lesson was going, by the number of times he would light up in an hour. And if he'd start the lesson with a full box of B&H, and then half an hour later make me pull into a garage forecourt so he could pick up some more, I knew things weren't going well at all. To be fair, he probably had quit smoking, but had run out of enough bare flesh for all the nicotine patches, that all he could do, was inhale smoke through his lungs, just to calm his nerves.
The upside of learning with Tommy was that he was also an incredibly bad bookkeeper. He would encourage his pupils to buy lessons in blocks of six, and then give away the seventh free. But, what would often happen, is that he would lose counts of exactly how many lessons a pupil had taken, so much so that he would be under the illusion that he owed me time. To be honest, I didn't have the heart to tell him. And anyway, it probably makes up for the amount of passive smoke I'd have to inhale (I was almost in need of nicotine patches myself, some lessons).
Anyway, with Tommy and me, it wasn't to be either. So we eventually parted company
However, I'm still amazed he actually put me in for a driving test. The first one was officially the worst experience of my life. My god, it was like watching a car crash (no pun intended).
Now one of the major problems I've had with the driving test, and this was certainly true of the first, and probably the following four, was the bit at the start when they ask to read out the number plate of that car parked up the road. Now, quite often, I'm tempted to say, what car? But I don't think that's really suitable in that situation, especially as I actually couldn't read the number plate, as I am long sighted from birth. On one occasion, I actually had to guess what each letter was, and by some miracle I actually got it right. However, what was most embarrassing (I think it was test number four), was when I had so much difficulty reading the number plate, that the instructor had to go back into the driving school office, to fetch a large reel of measuring tape, so she could mark out the specified twenty metres between me and the car. I didn't pass that test, either. In my defence, this wasn't really my fault, as my optician had got my prescription wrong, and so I had been walking around, or rather driving around with glasses too strong for me. And so, I probably shouldn't have been out on the roads anyway.
Anyway, on my first test I was somewhat unfamiliar with the driving test protocol, and so every time the instructor asked me to pull over to the side of the road (something they tend to do a lot, I have discovered), I thought he was going to end the test there and then. And at the time, I wish he bloody had!
On another occasion I was driving along the portway, which is like a main road that runs along side the River Avon in Bristol and under the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Anyway, I'm driving quite correctly, in the right hand lane, as the left hand lane's for buses; when the instructor asks me to turn left at the traffic lights. Now, unfortunately for me, the road markings are such, that the bus lane appears to end just before the junction, and there are traffic lights over the left hand lane and the right hand lane. In order to turn left, I positioned the car over the left hand lane, and looked out for the traffic lights that I perceived to be for me. Meanwhile the traffic lights over the right hand lane have already turned green, while I wait for the traffic lights over what is now my lane to do the same. They don't, they stay red. The traffic lights over the right hand lane turn red. Then they turn green again. My traffic lights stay on red. This continued for probably only another few minutes (but it seemed like an eternity at the time), until the instructor, somewhat exasperated, said I could go. I hadn't twigged. The traffic lights in the left hand lane, were for buses.
Now what does surprise me of the ten years I've spent on and off learning to drive, is that I have never actually crashed a vehicle. Although, there was a close call the night before one of my tests (possible number five, or was it six?), while out driving with my dad, when I almost mowed down a moped (that's almost a limerick), on a roundabout. The man on the moped looked like he was in his seventies, and so to be fair, probably didn't have long to live, anyway. My dad seemed to take it with some amusement, although he was probably in shock.
My third instructor, who I'm afraid I have some difficulty in thinking of any cultural icons to compare him to, though maybe there was something of the Tony Hart about him, and I don't mean we spent every lesson with his little plasticine pal Morph, while he attempted to do charcoal drawings of cattle; was really rather good. Although still, not good enough for me to actually pass my test. I would have happily stayed longer with Ol' Tone, but various factors conspired against us, and anyway the paint fumes were getting too much.
Anyway, my fourth, current, and hopefully final instructor, I really am stuck for any cultural icons to compare her too. So I won't, as she's a bit too current and might get a bit offended if I started comparing her to the grandmother off the Kumas.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t gutted not to have passed on eighth attempt, or the previous seven for that matter. But I just felt I had a real determination, that I was going to do it this time, so much so that I barely considered that I might fail.
Anyway, it's eight and counting. Just remember, Maureen from Driving School. You've got nothing on me................
Posted by levers
at 7:17 PM GMT
Updated: Tuesday, 1 November 2005 7:19 PM GMT
