Over twenty years of
working as a secondary school teacher in the company of more women than men was
proving to be a worryingly emasculating experience. So concerned was I about how such toxic
levels of exposure to female thinking had conditioned me to almost UNDERSTAND
and often empathise with women, that I decided to chuck in the job and set
about pursuing a career in the most manly of occupations – white van driving.
First things first, I had
to get my white van licence and buy myself my very own second hand van to
practise being manly in.
I had to sit an online
theory test first. I failed several
times. On the initial attempt, my
efforts were swiftly nipped in the bud as soon as I entered my forename. I was informed that “Michael” was an
unsuitable name for a white van driver as it did not sound like a bark. So, I tried “Mike.” No joy.
I clicked the link to “clues” and chose the moniker “Lee” from a very
short list of names that could be barked out loud over long distances, the
others being Paul, Dave and Pete.
“Do you wish to take the
highway code test to check your ability to drive safely, before moving on to the section on white vans?” Apparently the answer is not yes. I eventually negotiated this trick question.
“What do you do if a bird
gets into your van?”
Opening the window to let
it out was not the right answer. You don’t
want to know what was.
Where I came almost
completely unstuck was in the politics section.
Here I was judged to have some “dangerously tolerant views about
immigrants.” But eventually, I passed and
booked the driving test.
In the meantime, I
purchased a van, got it through an MOT and checked Google Maps for Unit 23 in
the Industrial Park where the examiner, Paul, would assess my white van
driving.
I turned up one morning at
6.30 am and as I stepped out to greet Paul, he was already shaking his
head. Scrutinizing my van with a
critical eye and a slow shaking of the head, he immediately identified three
faults that made my vehicle un-roadworthy.
Number one, it was too clean; number two, both brake-lights were
working; and number three, there was no sign of any rubbish, copy of
the Daily Star or McDonald’s cartons scrunched down the dashboard.
I re-booked my next test
for 6 months later, by which point the bottom half of the van was covered in
grime, and mould was growing on the drinks cartons down the dashboard. On the way to see Paul, I stopped to buy a
paper from the local shop, employing a learning point from the theory test by
parking at an angle across a disabled space.
I didn’t quite pull off the fuckit-swagger as I got out, but I
considered myself a passably genuine white van man. I even had CUNT written in the filth on the
back doors (originally, I’d gone for CLEAN ME and then the IF YOU THINK THIS IS
DIRTY YOU SHOULD MEET MY WIFE standard bit of finger graffiti, but both of
these were rubbed out and replaced by a passer-by with the more concise and appropriate
noun vulgarising the female genitalia.)
When I turned up Paul
looked at my CUNT and ticked a box on his examiner’s sheet. The van passed muster. He told me to start it up and then offered me
a Starbucks tea. When I declined,
pointing out that not only was I driving, but I’d already had breakfast, he
frowned incredulously and scratched an emphatic cross into a different box on
his sheet.
The test lasted an
hour. I failed on a number of
counts. Paul listed my faults for me:
·
Failing to drive
above 40 mph in a 30 mph zone
·
Over-use of
indicators when turning
·
Pulling over to
the kerb when stopping to pick up Dave
·
Under-use of the
horn in situations demanding that some soppy arsehole gets out of your lane
·
Failure to use
empty lane to by-pass traffic just because it was the wrong lane to be in
·
Failing to
maintain a stopping distance of under 1 metre from the car in front
·
Failing to answer
my mobile whilst driving at 60 mph even though it was obvious that the examiner
was trying to ring me from the other side of Dave
·
Driving past fit
birds without due care and attention
So complete was my failure
that Paul’s only recommendation was that I sell my van and take up nursing. Seemingly, the prospect of doing a proper day’s
work was an aspiration beyond my capacity.
