‘Course, I realise this isn’t really about motorists or driving at all. It’s merely the thoughts that occur to me in my capacity as a driver. I wonder if they would be the same if I was sitting on a horse or riding a bicycle. You are probably wondering what I do for a living. I drive for a courier firm, delivering letters and packages around the Capital. (though I could use a horse or an elephant for all the difference it would make, seeing as traffic now moves slower through the streets than it did in the era of the horse-drawn carriage more than a hundred years ago) When I was young I wanted to be a fireman, but something stunted my growth. All that puffing behind the bike shed probably. But the biggest drawback was that eighteen months I spent in Wandsworth for arson…
The things people do to motorists! Look at this in my morning paper. A Mr Murphy had just driven his van into the courtyard of the block of flats where he lived, whereupon he was shot in the leg and relieved of his van and the takings from his shop. He managed to hobble outside and stopped a passing police car, which took him to the nearby Hospital. His wife, meanwhile, had seen his van arrive in the courtyard and began putting his dinner on the table. When he didn’t appear she decided to call him on his mobile phone. Imagine her surprise when the voice at the other end said; ‘I’ve just shot him so he’s probably gone to the hospital.’ Afterwards she said; ‘I was very annoyed with my husband and wanted to tell him his dinner was getting cold’…..

Yesterday afternoon I arrived home to a crescendo of banging. It was coming from the bottom of my garden. It was my neighbour, trying to demolish the tree that had taken over a corner of his patch. His method of felling it was certainly original; he was hacking away at it with a hammer and chisel. Perhaps this was how they felled trees in India. Nevertheless, I offered him the loan of my saw.
It seemed to me that my shed was directly in the line of fire, but he assured me there was no danger, and indicated the rope attached to his tree. I left him to his devices and went to fix myself a cup of coffee. I could see him through my window, squatting up the tree, about six feet above ground, sawing away. (I know, but don’t ask why…) Suddenly the tree began to topple…straight for the shed. I could see the guy-rope fluttering uselessly in the breeze. Fleet of foot, the intrepid lumberjack leapt on to the roof of the shed and diverted the tree into the garden instead. When I got outside he was dancing a jig of delight on the roof; ‘see, I am telling you it will miss the shed’. I looked at my flattened rosebushes and hardy annuals, and could only shake my head in disbelief…

This morning is a pleasant one for a change. The view from the top of Highgate Hill is wonderful, almost invigorating. What is it about high ground that lifts the depression and sets the senses tingling? Whatever it is it must be what seperates the brain-boxes from the mutton-heads. The intellectuals seek the high ground – moral and otherwise – of Hampstead, Highgate and Greenwich, while the proles are dumped in dives like Leyton, Poplar and Kensal Green.
There is a weak sun poking through the clouds, bathing Alexandria Palace in a soft glow, and a gentle breeze is rustling the fallen leaves. When I reach Acton I will see neither; just consumptive chimney-stacks belching their shite into the sky.
North Circular Road…Neasden…Stonebridge Park…Hangar Lane…Nightmare Avenue.Concrete above me, concrete below me, concrete to either side of me. Wembley Stadium in the distance; another concrete blob on the horizon. Regiments of cones guard acres of empty lanes. Whilst silent machines stare at gaping holes and mounds of battered tarmacadam. Unmoved, unmoving, I study this scene of desolation. One day all roads will look like this. Soon.
Nowhere man, that’s me. Slowly going nowhere. Even if there were no jams I would still be going there. Maybe that’s what I should call this … Thoughts Of A Nowhere Man. No ambition you see…least not until I began writing this.
Those boxes and packages, wonder what’s in them? Not that there’s anything valuable…nothing worth doing a runner for. Remember that guy a few years back, cab driver, who picked the fare with all that money in his briefcase? Hundreds of thousands there was. The guy needed a smoke so bad he asked the driver to stop at a newsagents. When he came back the cab had gone. Must be the most expensive pack of ciggies in history…
By the way, I have found out who Tiresias was. I thought he might have been some obscure Greek philosopher but the librarian thought it was the name of a poem by Tennyson. That is why she is a librarian and I am a courier. Tiresias was a blind seer – made that way as a punishment for seeing the Goddess of Wisdom naked – and in the poem is urging his son to commit suicide. The blind leading the blind? Probably an accurate description of British Rail.





Thoughts Of A Stationary Writer00002314

What about that Julie Burchell on the Box the other night? An opinion of herself so high that anyone kissing her arse would think it was a moonbeam. Who would ever have thought that such a squeaky voice could emerge from such a burly chassis? And what about the Gooners yesterday? Worst performance of the year. Come on lights,fucking change. Can’t see any ridges on those trousers. Bet she isn’t wearing any.
You’re probably thinking I’m a bit touched, rabbiting away like this about everything and nothing. But have you ever sat at the traffic lights waiting for the green light; drumming your fingers or picking your nose? It’s hard to think about nothing; thoughts come into your head whether you like it or not. Just because you are a stationary driver doesn’t mean that your brain is stationary too. The reverse in fact. I find that I get most of my better ideas when I’m waiting at the lights or stuck in long queues. Well, it’s either that or crack up. Huge jams are the best of all; you get more time to delve deeply into your subject matter. I almost feel a pang of regret when that log-jam finally breaks up.
I got the idea originally from reading a weird book called ‘Notes On The Overground’; all about the thoughts of a commuter who travelled daily between Oxford and London. Whilst others read their papers or did the crossword, he wrote in his diary. Tiresias, what a funny name to call himself. Must look it up. Anyway, if some civil-servant from Oxford could do it for rail users, why couldn’t I do it for motorists.
He said it, my God he said it!
Brazen-faced to the watching millions
‘They should not leak’, he ventured
‘After all, they are servants to the Crown’

Leaking in public? How revolting!
And where would it begin?
A seepage from the ears perhaps?
Or a welling-up from beneath

All those starched collars?
Perhaps it would occur in the nether regions
Visible only by a steady trickle
Down around the ankles

My telephoned enquiry brought no joy
‘I can assure you we have no
Leaking civil servants here
Why don’t you try MI5’

( Excuse the diversion, but this just popped into my head. My thanks to the gentleman from some branch of officialdom or other who appeared on TV and actually said, ‘civil servants should not leak’)

Tiresias described the train as a battleground. He is wrong. Maybe in its heyday, before the world was overpopulated by cars, there was some truth in his claim; but nowadays all the real battles take place in the streets, the roads and on the motorways.
I sometimes think London is one great big lunatic asylum and the lunatics are all us motorists driving around on the outside trying to get in. It is not for nothing that the M25 has been christened ‘The Road To Hell’. A Dante’s Inferno of screaming and wailing motorists; lost souls doomed to revolve forever on this damned circle.

There are fewer more uncomfortable modes of travel than the car. A camel perhaps. ( one hump or two?) Although a friend once tried riding on an ostrich and found it an awesome experience. ‘Give me a bucking bronco any day’, he said afterwards. But getting back to the car; Imagine spending one fifth of your life crouched over a steering wheel, knuckles white from being permanently tensed up, constantly having to be alert for kamikaze pedestrians, and you get the general idea…

Seven AM In The Smoke

‘No Surrender’
The motorists battle-cry
Echoing through the smog and fumes.
Furiously-pedalling cyclists,
Sinisterly masked,
Towing technology in their slipstreams.
Legions of static transporters
Slowly going nowhere.
Human perambulators
Reeling them in one by one.
Phantom headlines flashing before my eyes

Onward to the asylum!

to be continued…………………