No one has ever punched me and I’m not sure why. Because I can be a right, provocative bastard.
I say “no one” but I’m being a bit absolute here. I have had one physical fight in my life. There was a kid, maybe a year younger than me, from the most notorious family on the council estate behind our house in Southgate. You know, one mum, ten kids, ten missing dads, weekly visits from the Old Bill. We were about 8 or 9 and he started on my little brother; so, on the Green in front of our house, I fought him and beat him up. No repercussions from his dysfunctional, scary family. And as far as I recall, no opponent’s punches landed on my face.
The only punch to the face that I can recall was from a Spurs fan in about 1988, just after we beat them. Typically bitter, he spat at me, after demanding I take my “rag off” (scarf). He was the other side of a kerbside barrier, and as I tried to hurdle it to get back at him, he punched me on the nose. I have to say, that punch packed all the power of a Tottenham title challenge, so I count that even less than the aforementioned fight.
So, to all intents and purposes, no one HAS ever punched me in the face, and as a result, I suffer from a dangerous and deluded sense of over-confidence. Which makes me a cocky bastard.
Let’s face it. I’m 5’9 (in rubber soled boots), only just tall enough to be considered tall in south east Asia and I have never visited a gym in my whole life. And…although this is more recent (5 years now), I’ve had a heart attack. So, really, I should be leading a life in which I sensibly avoid all conflict with other males (or females who can hit the 10m line with a shot put), because I’d have as much durability in a physical fight as Mother Teresa up against Mike Tyson.
However, I don’t sensibly avoid it.
I need putting in my place, but no one’s done it yet, so I think, fuck it.
And this is what I think every time I get in the car. I’m sure you’ll agree that all human faults are amplified tenfold when placed behind the wheel of a car. I deplore arrogant, selfish and bullying driving. And because no one’s punched me for reacting to it, I nearly always react to it. Out of some reckless sense of justice, irritation or pride. If some cunt tailgates me, I slow down and hit the brakes intermittently, aiming to piss the culprit off. If some cunt tailgates someone else, I tailgate them. (But then realise that someone with my mentality might tailgate me for tailgating a tailgater, not knowing I’m only revenge tailgating a tailgater.)
If someone is constantly switching lanes on a motorway, like in that 90s video game Frogger, in an effort to get in front of everyone, I try and block them in. Strategic positioning, so they can’t get past.
If someone is speeding behind me and I can change lanes to let them pass, I use up about a quarter of a mile of road doing a painfully slow lane change, just to piss them off.
If someone does ANY road move designed to compensate for their low self-esteem, for being bullied at school for annoying everyone, for some form of social disenfranchisement or for simply having a dick the size of a cocktail sausage, then I open the window and give a sarcastic clap to applaud their pathetic display of peacock machoism.
I just can’t help it. It’s like driver Tourette’s. Any sense of fear is subsumed by the overwhelming impulse to react. It HAS nearly got me into trouble though. Sometimes, like today even, for example, calling some burly bloke in a van a “prick” can push an unstable, aggressive bastard into seeking retribution. Fortunately today, his anguished retort of “fuck you”, carrying with it an insane, over-reactive desperation to get back at me, was met with frustration, as I’d timed it so he couldn’t turn round and get past the roadworks’ lights in time. But on a few other occasions, I’ve had blokes speed up behind me, around me, slam their brakes in front of me… do all the posturing to try and intimidate me, and then the thought DOES go through my mind, that says, “Ah crap, he might get out and punch me.” And for a few days or even weeks, I’m more restrained. But like an addict, I can’t quit for long.
I blame my Dad. The older I have got, the easier I have found it to follow his adage of “Don’t get angry, get even!” And I don’t get angry anymore. I think my heart meds help with that. So, this isn’t road rage on my part these days. But it can bring out the Bruce Banner in the wankers I deliberately seek to ‘get a message across to.’ That message being, “Don’t be a wanker,”
You might think that perhaps I need to avoid using the car so much, cut down the potential for inciting these conflagrations, use public transport. But when I do, I have proved equally reactive and provocative, by sticking a foot out to trip up anyone (not women, of course, same as on the roads, never women or the elderly) who has barged their way through a crowd or onto a train ahead of others. Fortunately, no one has fallen on their face, and the fact that they have tripped can be blamed on their barging through, rather than on the deliberate outstretching of my leg as they do so. Consequently, I get away with that behaviour as well, and no one has punched me in the face yet.
So, there you go, that’s what I wanted to share with the group today. No judgement, remember?
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