Resist the urge, even if it is just an itch that needs scratching…


You know how it is that sometimes you have to do something, you have an urge. Those times when you have a need to eat a kebab or the craving for a particular snack is just impossible to resist no matter how absurd it may appear? I admit to having them rather too often and, like an itch, they have to be dealt with. On the whole I’d say these urges are, more often than not, very satisfying. Well one evening, I got an urge, an urge that had to be followed up. Overall it was a stupid one, made even more stupid thanks to the help and encouragement of some equally stupid friends.

That evening we had been out at a countryside pub. The one tucked away down some tight country lanes, lanes lined with bushes and gated entrances to farmers fields, lanes where houses are rare and when found, are usually old, beautiful and expensive. We were driving back into town and having fun driving recklessly with youthful abandon. We took a corner a little too fast and didn’t slow down quick enough for the hump back bridge that followed the corner. I say we were driving fast, but remember, on a single lane winding road, 40mph is too fast, so we weren’t exactly belting it along. Nevertheless, even allowing for sudden braking, we hit the hump-back bridge at maybe 25mph. It was enough to make all of us leave our seats and bash our heads on the roof! The car hit the ground with a jolt and a sound that told us all something had fallen off. We fell about laughing… It was like a fairground ride, only free. We wanted to do it again, but faster this time. Our designated driver was in no mood to repeat things, it being his father’s car and his father would not be happy that his car now had a buckled front bumper and was missing a front indicator. So home we all went. But that evening had left an itch that needed to be scratched.

Over the coming weeks myself and my fellow passengers agreed we needed to return to the hump-back bridge and see how fast we could take it and how far the car would jump. With military precision we began working out the details, each of us taking a role in the operation. One of us was a regularly competitor in banger racing and could source us a car that would not cause any family upset if we broke a few bits, another could then prepare the car so that it would survive what we were sure would be a pretty awesome jump and me, being as mechanical as a bowl of fruit offered to paint the car so it looked good. A week later we have the car, a white, 20 year old Ford something or other, picked up from the local scrap yard for £35. Quite un-roadworthy if you were to look at it with a legal eye, but the engine was good enough, the clutch only slipped between 3rd and 4th gear and the bodywork, rusty in places, would do. Mate number 2 took out the windows, removed the petrol tank and rear seats. A smaller, plastic petrol tank was fixed into the boot, metal bars were welded to give some strength and protection, and finally the seat belts were replaced for cheap second-hand race-harnesses. Then came my turn to add the artistic touch. Although it is fair to say I did paint it, it’s fairer to actually say I just painted the words ‘Super Dave Stunt Team’ down both sides in thick black emulsion paint. That said, after those 5 minutes spent decorating the thing, it looked pretty good. It  was all ready to go, we were all ready to go, it was time to deal with that urge…

The location of the bridge as I mentioned earlier is on a thin country lane. From the opposite direction there is a long downhill run up to it, a length we guessed would allow the car enough room to achieve maybe 50 or 60mph, a speed we were confident would give us good height and laughter filled flight time. We also took into account that the damage suffered to the original car when we first took the bridge would be multiplied at a higher speed. Therefore one of us would have to borrow their parents car and follow us as if the damage was enough to make the ‘jump car’ un-driveable, we’d need an alternative mode of transport to get us to the pub so our night out could go ahead as planned and later we could then tow the ‘jump car’ back on our way home. See, we really had taken our time and knew that preparation is indeed the key to everything.

The weekend came and that evening we got ourselves ready. No special clothing, it was, after all, still just a lads night out, so fireproof race suits were dismissed in favor of figure hugging trousers, funky patterned shirts, some fake tan, a few squirts of cheap smelly stuff and a condom in the wallet just in case. Can’t be disappointing the ladies now can we. The one concession we did make was to use crash helmets, as we knew from experience that hitting the roof without one would hurt. Suitably attired we fired up the old bucket and off we went. Aware of the car being now completely illegal, un-registered, un-taxed and uninsured, we took the route we figured would be the most discreet.

I thought I knew my friends. I had grown up with them, been through years of school with them, showered with them and spent countless hours in their company. They had my trust. I would have been a more cautious driver that night, I would have taken the hill down to the bridge at the speed we had agreed upon, braked a little maybe, shown some caution and a degree of consideration to my passenger. But I wasn’t the driver that night, I was the passenger and my trust was in the hands of the driver. Those years of thinking I knew him were proven wrong. We took the corner before the hill at close to 60mph, by the time we were upon the bridge we were doing 95. We hit the bridge and just took off. The car must have been launched easily 40 foot into the air and our flight distance must have exceeded 100ft, the glide path changed from being us looking up to the stars to us looking down onto the road as the weight of the engine in the front and the laws of gravity pulled the nose down. The whine of the screaming engine was replaced by the crunch and crash of metal hitting tarmac. Bits of car fell around us, the bonnet flew off, the rear door popped open, the bumper shattered and the steering wheel came away from its mounting. The back of the car touched down a few moments later and we began to bounce uncontrollably. Earlier I mentioned how we originally discovered the unique qualities of the bridge, how from the other direction we had taken the corner too fast at 40mph, remember that bit. Well now we were aiming for that said corner at something like 80mph plus, bouncing around like a kangaroo and as we now had no steering wheel, we were both just passengers in the sequence of events that followed.

It became clear we were not going to make the corner and I braced for impact as the bushes lining the corner grew closer. We ploughed though the bushes, which it turned out were for a rather well concealed house, a rather elegant one as well. The owners had obviously spent time and money on their garden, the lawn was flat and perfectly stripped by a recent trim, pretty flowers lined the edges and the centre-piece was an ornate little pond with a fountain in the middle, a fountain shaped like a flower with some Greek styled statue of a woman holding an urn from which water was cascading. The pond I imagine would have been a perfect habitat for newts and frogs, possibly hiding some fish as well, who knows, its surface was dotted with large Lilly pads and it was dark. I did know that it was overdue a bit of dredging as, climbing out of the car, my feet sunk into a deep muddy bottom. Completely ruined my shoes it did and the algae stains on my jeans would prove a nightmare to get rid of. In fact, months later, the vigilant would still be able to pick out the slight change of colour where the stains once were.

Behind us, our pathway had been exceptionally well described. The entry into the garden was marked by a car width gap in the bushes, all the plants on the route were flattened and the lawn was churned up where the tyres had twisted and turned their way to the pond where we had finally come to a halt. The statue was in a number of pieces, one piece now being in our car, another embedded into the lawn and one somewhat larger piece, having been brutally flung through one of the greenhouse windows, was now nestled in what looked like some well cared for tomato plants, country show winning specimens they seemed to be, big juicy red things they were, certainly nothing like we’d be able to buy at the local supermarket. How the other half live…The fountain, having its pipe work liberated, was spurting high, raining cold water down upon us and, judging by the security lights that were now lighting up the whole garden and the sound of barking, the owners of the house were aware of their evening being somewhat disturbed. We did what any sensible person would do in a situation like this. We leapt out of the pond and ran.

The back up car, no longer being a rescue vehicle, was now our getaway vehicle and we leapt into it, soaking wet, muddy footed, screaming like the old F1 commentator Murray Walker, “go, go go”. We gave the pub a miss.

The parents of our getaway driver grounded him for a week for bringing the car back so filthy inside. The owners of the house we crashed into managed to get the insurance company to sort them out, how do I know that..? Well for our efforts, we made it into the local newspaper! Front page the following week is a photo of our car. Smashed up, nose stuck in the pond with carnage behind and around it. Clearly shown is my artistic contribution and the headline read… “Just who is Super Dave?”

The urge to see what would happen if we took the bridge a bit faster had been dealt with, it hadn’t gone exactly to plan and we did feel bad about the bushes, plants, lawn, fountain, anything in the pond that didn’t make it and of course those rather superb tomato plants. What it didn’t do was prevent a new urge from forming, a new itch that needed scratching. Thanks to the newspaper headline, we thought it would be fun to get another car, give it the same ‘Super Dave Stunt Team’ livery and see if we couldn’t get ourselves onto the front page just one more time. And funnily enough, we all began wondering if it would be at all possible to jump the local canal that ran through the town centre…

The ugly truth about Spanish drivers…

I’m not one to complain that much. I think I am generally tolerant, probably more so than many and have no real issues pending with religion, politics, sex, the neighbours. No that’s wrong, I do have an intolerance to the neighbours. The ones on our left should be dumped in a big hole and that hole should be filled with something smelly and slimy. But apart from the neighbours, maybe the ruling political party in Spain… And the UK now I’m thinking of it. Bankers, obviously. And the twit who manages the bar where I have breakfast. Other than that and a couple of other things, I would say I am the accepting type. Well maybe upon revision I’d probably more likely say I like to complain about something every now and again.

Motoring is a subject I do have strong opinions on. Voicing these opinions tends to elevate me above those who are the focus of my complaint and thus takes me out of their circle which is odd I suppose because most of what motorists do that I complain about, I do all the time myself. I could be a professional cutter upper, I think everyone does enjoy listening to MY music when I drive past with the windows down and come to think of it, yes I do own the road!

So that qualifies me without question to be able to complain about other motorists. Which is the point of this post. I started scribbling my list one evening. The TV was just running repeats of repeats, everyone else had gone to bed, there was nothing else to do really. Being honest, I did struggle with things and found myself doodling. That got me thinking about drawing my complaint, but that couldn’t work, I needed a mix. Then I remembered how Newsweek once impressed me during the Gulf War by using infographics to show me who was up for it, who didn’t want to get their hands dirty, something about a petting zoo for Sads children and the chances of the weapons he had that started the whole messy war business in the first place, not actually being weapons at all. Anyway, what it was about isn’t really important. This was the route I would take and have taken. No more words, I give you… The Ugly Truth about Spanish Drivers.