Road Rage

I actually quite like driving. It’s only other stupid road users that make the experience an unpleasant one, but give me an open road and some good music and I’m away. I quite like night driving for this very reason; most spongly bongle brains have gone home by then. I say most; there’s always some nelly who insists on driving at 25 mph through fear of accidentally going over 30 - even though the speed limit is actually 40 - or a Michael Schumacher wannabe almost pushing me along with his bumper.

But the most annoying road users have to be those stupid teenagers who ride around on those irritatingly noisy death traps they call “mini bikes”. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m sure they are fantastic fun to ride on, but these things must have their place, and the road is not one of them – especially at night.

In the day time they ride around on the path or on the green where there are younger children playing - how long before one of them get seriously hurt? At night they ride on the road with no helmet and no lights, where unsuspecting motorists (i.e. me) risk accidentally killing one of them (which probably wouldn’t be a bad idea actually).

This summer the police have been trying to clamp down on these nuisance bikers, issuing fines and crushing the bikes into casino dice. (Why not crush them with the rider still on top, thus preventing any future offences?)

Trying to be a useful citizen I called the police one day to report nuisance bikers in our road. The lady kept me on the phone for ages asking for a description of the rider:

“What’s the colour of the bike?”
I don’t know; I can’t see it! It’s tiny and there’s someone sitting on it!
“What’s the hair colour of the rider?”
Err... he's blonde.

(Much tapping on a keyboard, reminiscent of that scene in “Meet the Parents” at the airport)

“What’s he wearing?”
Umm... white t-shirt, black bottoms, white stripes down the sides. He’s there now! I can see him through my window!

(More tapping on the keyboard)

“How old is he?”
I don’t know! Do you want me to go and ask him for his date of birth or something?
“And he’s got blonde hair you say?”
Yes! He’s there! He’s out there right now!

(More tapping)

“Do you know his name?”
What?
“Or where he lives?”
Blimey, do you want his eye colour as well? Why would I know anything about the yobs that live in my area? I thought that part was your job.*

I kept thinking: if you just send someone out they’ll be able to see what he looks like for themselves. Eventually our call came to an end:

“And he’s wearing a white t-shirt and black bottoms with white stripes down the sides?”
(Exasperated now) Yes!

(Yet more tapping)

“Ok, we’ll send someone out”
There’s no point love; he’s probably gone home for Christmas by now...


After I nearly ran one of them over the other night I called the police again. This time the gentleman I spoke to at the police call centre was much more efficient, helpful, and reassuring.

“Don’t you worry yourself; they know they’re in the wrong. It’s their own fault if they get hurt”

It was nice of him to say so, but it would still be traumatic to actually run someone over and have to wait for the results of an investigation. I know, because my brother has been through it himself.

The problem is no one wants to take on the responsibility of providing an area for these Kamikaze bikers to ride in. Surely if one of these delicate little petals was to seriously injure themselves, then their loving parents - who bought the contraption for them after careful thought and deliberation - would be in an uproar and would surely sue whoever was stupid enough to provide them with an area where they could ride without being a risk to the general public.

So I have to agree with the gentleman on the phone:

“Whoever invented those things should be shot”


*Not a true account of our conversation, mostly just what I was thinking.