My Car Hell
Mar. 24th, 2002 01:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hirez(For the non post-modern, s/car/drug/ and giggle a bit. Or nod sagely to yourselves. Whichever.)
I have an odd relationship with cars.
Some people I know buy big, expensive ones on credit terms that would make Shylock laugh with an ugly sense of power. Others buy shit ones from some geezer in the pub and then drive them into hedges pissed up. I used to buy nasty ones that I'd beat the crap out of and agonize over every patch of rust you could put your hand through. Then I went through a long period of being given average ones and destroying them in as many life-threatening ways as possible.
(You don't believe? Ask to see the scars. I can do self-destructive at 60mph to the sound of Big Black. Knives are pitiful and uncomplicated machines best suited to teenagers who want to live to piss off their parents. People staring down both barrels of the rest of their lives employ something with a little more Terminal Velocity...)
These days I just drive old Saabs and have them broken into by hopeless amateurs.
I like Saabs. Damn things are built like small tanks, will go for a million miles if looked after (like series Landies in that regard) and will cruise at 80-90 all day. And will also jump up and down on the spot if it's a blown one and you're a bit careless with the right foot. Say what you like about BMWs (driven by complete tossers, by and large) or Volvos (ideal for carting Ikea furniture or antiques) but there's nothing on this planet like a two-door 900 turbo with the three-spokes and the spoiler. Sex on a front-wheel-drive stick.
Anyway. This last week, I have been driving a Nissan. Nice wireless, shame about the rest of the car. This was because Son of Shed (a 9000 auto, before that there was Harry the Bastard [a 900i], Shed [Volvo 244], Silver Machine III [Legendary three-wheeled Renault 5], Silver Machine II [VW thing and microwave] and a SIII Landie with a V8 plant dropped in. (and many, many others before)) was being mended by Tim the Saab. Who keeps his garage in Caerleon. A minutes study of the relevant OS map will show that it's about four miles outside of Newport and a bit of a bugger to get to from Bristol if you're sans car. What I obviously was.
So. Struggle awake Sat. AM. This was hard. The Americans have this thing called Nyquil. Dennis Leary has an entire routine based around this patent medicine, and rightly so. It is green brain-death in a plastic bottle and it is the only thing to use if you've a headful of snot or flu or whatever and can't sleep therefore. But. You do not wake up when you arise from your pit of bedness in the morning. Certainly, you show all the outward signs of humanity: you breathe, blink (if slowly) and can perform simple jobs of work. But coherent thoughts or speech are beyond you. Somehow, in this zombified state, I got on the bus, trogged down to the station, made it to Newport and bagged a taxi to Caerleon where I waited for Tim the Saab to show up. Then I had a wait. When I was bored with that, I had another, slightly different wait.
Then I had a panic attack, which would probably have been the time the Nyquil-fog lifted. Panic attacks are... Not Much Fun.
So I leapt back on the next bus (God, all this public-transport-fun sounds so... Prosaic... Can't see HST waiting for a 43, though I guess it was good enough for Kerouac...) and trundled back toward Newport and the train home. As I reach the station, the mobile goes. It's Tim. Bugger. Back to Caerleon in another taxi and... There's Tim and my car, rendered shiny and expensive-looking, rather than a four-wheeled money pit...
And that about wraps up the day. I can't say I recommend trying to survive that sort of malarkey on a banana, a cup of tea and a cold. Though I will absolutely recommend Tim if you need your Saab fixed.
Moral: JH-R doesn't function well without a car. I always need an escape route. (There's a tangential LSD-tale here that's funnier'n fuck, if you're into that sort of thing)
I have an odd relationship with cars.
Some people I know buy big, expensive ones on credit terms that would make Shylock laugh with an ugly sense of power. Others buy shit ones from some geezer in the pub and then drive them into hedges pissed up. I used to buy nasty ones that I'd beat the crap out of and agonize over every patch of rust you could put your hand through. Then I went through a long period of being given average ones and destroying them in as many life-threatening ways as possible.
(You don't believe? Ask to see the scars. I can do self-destructive at 60mph to the sound of Big Black. Knives are pitiful and uncomplicated machines best suited to teenagers who want to live to piss off their parents. People staring down both barrels of the rest of their lives employ something with a little more Terminal Velocity...)
These days I just drive old Saabs and have them broken into by hopeless amateurs.
I like Saabs. Damn things are built like small tanks, will go for a million miles if looked after (like series Landies in that regard) and will cruise at 80-90 all day. And will also jump up and down on the spot if it's a blown one and you're a bit careless with the right foot. Say what you like about BMWs (driven by complete tossers, by and large) or Volvos (ideal for carting Ikea furniture or antiques) but there's nothing on this planet like a two-door 900 turbo with the three-spokes and the spoiler. Sex on a front-wheel-drive stick.
Anyway. This last week, I have been driving a Nissan. Nice wireless, shame about the rest of the car. This was because Son of Shed (a 9000 auto, before that there was Harry the Bastard [a 900i], Shed [Volvo 244], Silver Machine III [Legendary three-wheeled Renault 5], Silver Machine II [VW thing and microwave] and a SIII Landie with a V8 plant dropped in. (and many, many others before)) was being mended by Tim the Saab. Who keeps his garage in Caerleon. A minutes study of the relevant OS map will show that it's about four miles outside of Newport and a bit of a bugger to get to from Bristol if you're sans car. What I obviously was.
So. Struggle awake Sat. AM. This was hard. The Americans have this thing called Nyquil. Dennis Leary has an entire routine based around this patent medicine, and rightly so. It is green brain-death in a plastic bottle and it is the only thing to use if you've a headful of snot or flu or whatever and can't sleep therefore. But. You do not wake up when you arise from your pit of bedness in the morning. Certainly, you show all the outward signs of humanity: you breathe, blink (if slowly) and can perform simple jobs of work. But coherent thoughts or speech are beyond you. Somehow, in this zombified state, I got on the bus, trogged down to the station, made it to Newport and bagged a taxi to Caerleon where I waited for Tim the Saab to show up. Then I had a wait. When I was bored with that, I had another, slightly different wait.
Then I had a panic attack, which would probably have been the time the Nyquil-fog lifted. Panic attacks are... Not Much Fun.
So I leapt back on the next bus (God, all this public-transport-fun sounds so... Prosaic... Can't see HST waiting for a 43, though I guess it was good enough for Kerouac...) and trundled back toward Newport and the train home. As I reach the station, the mobile goes. It's Tim. Bugger. Back to Caerleon in another taxi and... There's Tim and my car, rendered shiny and expensive-looking, rather than a four-wheeled money pit...
And that about wraps up the day. I can't say I recommend trying to survive that sort of malarkey on a banana, a cup of tea and a cold. Though I will absolutely recommend Tim if you need your Saab fixed.
Moral: JH-R doesn't function well without a car. I always need an escape route. (There's a tangential LSD-tale here that's funnier'n fuck, if you're into that sort of thing)
