range rage

I had a very interesting journey home last night. It may be more interesting to read about than the actual experience as it was rather nerve racking.

Allow me if you will. Brutta and I approached the Vauxhall roundabout after traipsing past reams of stationary 4-wheel vehicles. I popped up the inside of a bunch of suckers as the lights changed and cut back across the front of the flow of traffic in order to get into the right-hand lane further ahead. I’ll be the first to admit this was a daring move, though executed to perfection of course, but not everyone was as enthusiastic as I. Of course, I took liberty to the sound of a horn of one of the so-owned motorists I’d just deleted from my commute.

Naturally, I gave the source of the horn the middle finger. I didn’t turn round, merely popped it up in between changing gears and roared off. Like most large roundabouts each corner is punctuated by traffic lights. The ones in front of me had just turned to red so imagine my surprise on deceleration-to-stop to feel a gentle pressure on the back of my calf. I looked down; it was a large bumper on closer examination. I turned round and a very, very angry skinned-head was sticking out of a black Range Rover, with all blacked out windows and suchwhat, and shouting at me. It’s worth mentioning that I vaguely recognised the head, possibly as someone connected to the football fraternity, but as I’m not au fait with this sport I couldn’t tell you which one it was. It’s also just as likely I’d seen the cunt on the news.

Anyway, the man was demanding I alighted from Brutta to engage in a violent confrontation after suggesting I wasn’t the ‘fucking tough guy’ the rude gesture implied, but as he didn’t actually leave his vehicle I reckoned he wasn’t entirely convinced that I wasn’t actually a ‘fucking tough guy.’ Despite this working in my favour getting my head kicked was still looking odds-on at this stage if I’m perfectly honest. The man in question was ever so cross.

I looked at other means at my disposal with which to diffuse the situation… then I noticed that sitting next to him was a small boy. The small boy looked petrified and as it wasn’t me doing the shouting I concluded it was the actions of his, I assumed, father that was instigating his abject horror. With this in mind it was time to make my move.

I lifted my visor and said, very clearly, loudly, even, ‘that’s not the sort of language to use in front of your son.’ (I’d seriously considered suggesting I’d flipped the bird only because I wanted to finger his child, but thought this might not go down well.) The shouting man looked momentarily confused and continued his tirade, well for a split second at least. ‘You Fu…!…Mug, you’re a mug, mate.’ He said, less enthusiastically, he glanced nervously at his son as the lights changed and I was gone. Fast.

In hindsight I think we all learnt a lesson that evening. The man in the Range Rover to not use bad language in front of a minor, not to mention frightening him half to death with his aggressive behaviour and for me to make sure I have a clear exit to fuck off out of it after making an obscene gesture.

If you’ve not been watching TV Burp… Catch.