Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [23]
The offended man should, strictly speaking, instigate proceedings with 'some inescapably insulting gesture' such as throwing a gauntlet before his opponent. Quite why this is such an affront I don't know, especially as most people would simply pick it up and say, 'Here, mate, you dropped one of your gloves.' Therefore I propose a new convention, such as holding up a card bearing the likeness of the late and much lamented former chairman of Aston Martin, Victor Gauntlet.
At the discretion of the wronged party, and for the full mother-he-has-killed-me-dies effect, the duel can be fought to the death. But it is acceptable to fight to 'first blood', in which case, once you have brought forth the crimson fluid from the van driver, he is deemed to be the loser. This is good enough, even if you lose, because whatever status you think might be accorded to phat alloys or a big stereo, it's a livid two-inch scar on the right cheek that gets the girl.
For the van driver to decline the duel is dishonourable and effectively means he's lost. That's about it, really, as far as swordsmanship on the central reservation is concerned.
So to the man in the Renault Trafic who tried to run me off my bike last week, I say to you, sir, that your beard is not well trimmed, and that I can offer you the services of a blade.
And to the man in the Sprinter who tried to ram me: sir, I put it to you, sir, that you are indeed driving like an arse, sir. And I shall run you through, sir.
And to the man in the flat-bed Transit, who asked what thou art to do about it, thou great poof: very well, look your last upon the sun.
How refreshing is this? Under the current conventions for dealing with road rage, we arrive at our destinations boiling with a suppressed fury that we then inflict upon those we love. But a duel is clean, dignified and honourable. A duel, once over, can be quickly forgotten.
Especially if you're dead.
(James May is currently smitten through the helm and, without help, cannot last till dawn.)
BE AFRAID. BE VERY AFRAID. BUT ONLY OF THE SIZE OF THE BILL.
In the past, I have lamented the efforts of boring motor-related businesses to promote themselves with the findings of a fatuous survey or two.
Then I noticed that they'd changed tactics, and had started dispensing banal advice about winter driving or foreign motoring holidays in an attempt to make their industry seem more newsworthy than it really is.
But the latest efforts by Purple Parking to avoid paying for a proper advert actually defy belief. The company that is now branded purpleparking, its last remaining space having been sold off for £9.95 per 24-hour period or part thereof, is claiming that its London Heathrow car park is haunted. Spooky, really, because the last time I used the 50-acre site – where 'strange noises and sharp changes in temperature have been reported', and where during the day a car is parked every 20 seconds, it says here – I could have sworn that the LCD read-out on the ticket machine briefly displayed the image of Jacob Marley, who, as we all know, is as dead as a doornail.
Clearly, it's all complete rubbish.
I speak as someone who has indulged in a spot of genuine ghost-hunting. I once stayed, on successive nights, in three of the allegedly most haunted houses in England, Scotland and Wales, and I honestly wouldn't recommend the experience to my worst enemy. I left each one in great haste pursued by every demon that has ever dwelt within the minds of men. So I consider myself well qualified to comment on these matters.
And while I love a good fireside chiller as much as anyone,