More On The Stupidity Of Men

I was turning out of a side road the other day. A side road that met a main road, I was turning left onto the main road. I was in my car, you get the picture.

Like all men in the world I KNOW that I am absolutely brilliant and world class, perhaps the best in the world, at two things; sex and driving. We all walk around thinking those same two things, that we're a combination of Michael Schumacher and Ben Dover just waiting to be discovered. Many women won't understand this concept, you're usually happy to see driving as a means of transport, of getting from A to B and you usually see sex as an enjoyable activity, well some of you do.

For the hairier gender, driving is a continual challenge to our sense of masculinity. We need to do it as fast as possible and we need to be the best, the master, exactly like our approach to sex. As men we have to demonstrate, on an ongoing basis, our perfect sense of spatial awareness. There's none of that sitting up straight, face touching the windscreen while we negotiate our way through a narrow gap at the speed of an order at the Gallery Cafe. The man's way to approach a tricky part of road involves loud music, a James Bond air of nonchalence, one hand or less on the steering wheel and speed, lots of it.

And there I was. The traffic to my right, on the main road, had stopped because the car in front of it was turning right off that main road. I hope I'm explaining this clearly, sadly I'm not Cerno and therefore unable to give you Google Earth images and satellite tracking of the incident.

All of this meant that there was an opportunity for me to squeeze out of my side road and go merrily on my way. I did, but with a tiny little error of judgement. As I turned out I clipped my rear left tyre on the kerb of the side road. A minor thing, one that happens to many of us frequently. But being a man, it wasn't just my tyre that was clipped, my masculine pride had been hurt too. I'd made an error of driving judgement, which, in some countries gets you labelled officially as a woman, for the rest of your life.

I drove along for a couple of seconds with the thought that someone behind might have seen the incident and may have been reporting it to a Mens' magazine or even the governing of men (I believe it's called MENSA).

There was only one thing for it. In a matter of perhaps two seconds my agile mind, like that of a Leopard, made its decision, not that Leopards drive BMWs of course. I did the only thing that was going to safeguard my reputation as a man. It would fool everyone I thought cunningly.

I sped up. I drove like an absolute fucking mentalist. I covered the next half mile or so as if I was trying to qualify for this season's deciding Grand Prix. I figured that anyone who had seen me hit the kerb would now realise that I was in the most urgent hurry to get to my destination, that it wasn't an everyday error of judgement that had made me hit the pavement and scuff my tyre. No, they'd see my turn of pace and think that it was a natural mistake to make under the circumstances. Along the lines of

"Good God that good looking bloke's in a hurry, no wonder he hit the kerb. I wish I was manly enough to drive that fast."

I think it was the perfect plan.

It's tough being a man!