Any cunter who’s ever sat behind the wheel of a car will be familiar with the twattish young geezer referred to as the ‘boy racer’. For years this excrescence has caused untold annoyance to other drivers on the highways and byways of our great nation, driving high powered cars very fast and very aggressively. Now I’d like to give a bollocking to the female of the species, Chelsea Tractor Girl.
So there I was on this bright Autumn morning in my small but stylish Dacia Sandero, chugging along the road at 29.999 recurring mph in a 30 mph zone, being very law abiding as you can see, and minding my own business. About 100 yards ahead, the green traffic light at the junction changes to amber, and I touch the brake, slip into third, and begin a leisurely glide up to the red.
Suddenly all hell breaks loose behind me. There’s lights flashing, a horn blaring, and I look in the mirror to see a fucking Range Rover apparently in the process of trying to climb into my boot. And there she is at the wheel, nostrils flaring and hands gesticulating wildly; yes, it’s Chelsea Tractor Girl, and she’s not a happy bunny. It seems that I’ve prevented her reaching the red light a couple of seconds sooner, and foiled her plan to sit there revving the engine of her huge Chelsea Tractor wildly but impotently.
There’s obviously some dire emergency here. Could she be a minute late picking up the kids from their private school? Perhaps that meeting can’t start without her indispensable presence, or her nail technician has texted, threatening to close the salon if she’s not there in two minutes.
Anyway, as I trundle up to the light (still on red), CTG swings the Batmobile into the inside lane, designated left turn only except for buses and taxis. Here she sits giving me the Darth Vader death stare while a pulsing little vein in her forehead throbs and threatens to go *pop!*, a prospect which delights me inordinately. Then the light’s on amber and naturally she screeches straight ahead, cutting me up with a vicious outward swerve, then hammering up the road as the ’30 Slow Down’ warning flashes redundantly. I’m left eating dust, and shaking my head at the sheer bad manners and dangerous idiocy of this display.
What is it then about so many women these days that turns them into arrogant bullies the moment they get behind the wheel of some huge, fuck off 4×4? Does a sense of the vehicle’s power generate an impulse to inimidate, or is it some misguided notion of equality that tells them to show that they can be as big a twat as a bloke can be on the road? Perhaps it’s a bad attack of penis envy, with the tractor serving as a substitute dick to wave about, or in some cases maybe it’s just, well, that time of the month… Come to that, why does anybody drive one of these gas guzzling behemoths around in an urban environment anyway?
The great pioneering psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud once wrote ‘the great question that can never be answered is “what does a woman want?” ‘. Well I certainly can’t offer a comprehensive answer to that if Freud couldn’t, but I can tell you what CTG wants, and that’s to get her mini Panzer tank hurled into the nearest crusher asap, and if we’re very lucky, the little shit might even get heaved in with it. There’s always hope, even if there isn’t much in the way of expectation.
Nominated by Ron Knee