Young Barry asked me if I’d sell him my car. It’s old, but unlike me, is well looked after and has such low mileage I’m often asked if I’ve had it clocked. I haven’t. It’s just that I don’t use it unless I really have to. Barry knows that, hence his interest.

He explained he wanted a car to get to school. Why, I wondered, given the bus picks him up right outside his house and drops him a 2 minute walk from school. And all for student fare. Why would he want the expense of running a car. I assumed peer pressure and a teenage male’s natural inclination to show off. No, he was just pissed off at getting home at 5:00 or later when school finished at 4:00. An hour or more to travel 6km, because the buses are always late and sometimes don’t turn up at all.

I suggested he use his bike. Or at least stop looking up the road - a watched bus never boils.

But he’s right about the buses. I know others who make the same short journey for work and all have dispensed with the services of Bus Éireann for the same reason.

I was offered a 6 month contract based at Eastpoint Business Park a short time ago. Before accepting I did a few trial runs. Bus, train, Luas, combinations thereof - I didn’t even think of using the car. The quickest return trip was 3 and a half hours for less than 30km. I turned down the contract.

It is no wonder that rural and semi-rural dwellers shun public transport even when it is available.

A number of initiatives are in place to encourage public transport use. Some are excellent such as the full tax relief available for monthly and annual travel passes. Others are stealth taxes dressed up as disincentives such as exorbitant parking fees. Others are just plain stupid. Quality bus corridors (QBC’s) that are unused - they are not on a bus route. Reducing the number of parking spaces in towns to discourage cars - rural dwellers have no where to leave their cars when they take the bus. Small unsecured carparks at train stations. Can you think of more?

What one hand giveth and the other taketh away.

The Central Statistics Office published figures yesterday showing that, including those who drive work vehicles, 65% of the population drive to work. And those involved in the various authorities wonder why.

Shock horror, cried this week’s papers. 101,000 drivers on Irish roads are on their 3rd, or subsequent, provisional license. Shock horror my arse! The dogs on the street knew that. Let me rephrase - the dogs on the footpath knew that - they are too smart to walk out on the street.

For non-Irish readers who want to know what is meant by a provisional license, or simply want to have a good belly laugh at an unbelievably stupid approach to learner driver licensing, take a quick look at the Dept. of Transport explanation.

The previous/current (which is it anyway?) government have been spouting rubbish for years about reducing waiting lists for driving tests. Clear the backlog. What would that achieve? What is the logic? Mary gets to take the test and passes. Great. It proves Mary is a capable driver. But she was a capable driver in the lead up to her test. She didn’t suddenly become one on the day. Joe takes the test and fails. He isn’t capable of driving. Simple as that. He isn’t capable of driving. One more time - he isn’t capable of driving. But what happens when Joe is given a piece of paper with FAIL on it? He drives (yes, drives) down to the local authority office and buys himself another provisional license. Now get this - if he is applying for a 3rd or subsequent provisional he can get a 2 year one. Work that out: Joe has failed the test twice. He isn’t capable of driving. But he is allowed on the road for another 2 years.

Joe must have a fully licensed driver accompanying him. Makes sense. But if Joe is on his 2nd provisional he doesn’t. Explain that to me. Joe must display an L sign on the front and back of his car. He cannot drive on a motorway.

Now Joe, lives in Newbridge and works in Dublin. He uses the M7 and M50 motorways each working day. Like the thousands of others in similar circumstances he takes down his L signs - he might be pulled by the cops on the motorway if they seen them. Joe’s father accompanied Joe a few times as the fully licensed driver, but he can’t travel to work with Joe every day. In fact, his father was really only ever in the car with him while he was teaching Joe how to drive. Joe never took lessons from a professional - they were expensive and anyway, he doesn’t have to under law.

So we have two major things wrong here. Firstly, the licensing system is a mess. It hasn’t changed a whole lot since the days when you just walked into the post office and bought one across the counter. The pathetic restrictions which are in place, are seldom never enforced. Drivers like Joe get stopped at the odd checkpoint and the cop glances at the tax, insurance and NCT discs and waves him on. Never is he asked for his license so he can continue on his way with no L signs, on a motorway and with no fully licensed driver in the passenger seat.

[ As an aside: What Joe fails to realise is that by not complying with these restrictions he is not insured. Uninsured. Just like the boyracers who fail to check the box on the insurance form which asks has the vehicle modifications/adaptations to increase top speed, performance or acceleration. Uninsured. This is something else those who draw up statistics ignore, as do the government who (should) act on them. Uninsured is usually calculated based on the number of cars registered less the number of people insured. ]

The media, government, AA, Gardaí, MADD and so on bombard us with statistics on road deaths. Fine. I’m okay with that. It is truly horrific and needs to be kept in the public’s mind if it is ever to improve. But we never see statistics on the number of minor incidents bandied about in this way. I’m talking about shunts and scrapes. Has anyone ever dinted your car at the supermarket because they can’t park? Do you know how much it costs for a new wing? Have you ever seen a car buried in a ditch because it was only a Micra and the driver was trying to take a corner at 70km/h because that’s the speed daddy takes it in his Mazda 6? Have you seen cars with the front battered in because the driver was just 5m behind a truck which had to brake coming to a corner - a corner the car driver couldn’t see because they were too close to see around the truck? I could go on. These cost billions every year. Billions.

I’m not blaming provisional drivers solely. But they have to play a part. Especially if they have failed their test many times. Most so called fully licensed drivers just got lucky on the day of the test. Others perform just for the test and ignore the rules thereafter. Many get no professional instruction whatsoever. There are advanced driving courses that can be taken. as with regular lessons there is no obligation to do them under law. Stranger still, what we call advanced lessons are the basic compulsory requirement in most other developed countries.

The last government never seen the bigger picture. (Their only answer was to reduce test waiting times). I doubt the incoming one will either. Their posturing about zero alcohol, 1litre engine size restriction and so on is merely patching a system which needs to be redesigned from scratch. Some of what they are proposing is simply not practical, the remainder will be unenforced as usual.

Dear Van Drivers Listen here, wankers! Yeah, you. You in the Celtic/Mar U/Da Pool jersey. You with the Star/Mirror/Mail wedged on the dashboard between the paper coffee cups and left-over breakfast-rolls. Know who you are now?

Why can’t you shower of langers be like your big cousins, the truck drivers, and have some respect for other road users? We all know you want to be truckers when if you grow up. Some of you think you are truckers. But you’re not. Face it lads - you drive a scuttery Hiace/Transit/Ducato. Cars on steroids. That’s all. You aren’t in a big 18-wheel Scania.

You don’t scare me. Find that hard to believe? Well it’s true. It is pointless driving right up behind me. I’m not breaking the speed limit just because you’re up my ass like Freddy Mercury. I honestly don’t give a shit if you really must get to the next Centra/Spar/Mace for an emergency breakfast roll.

I know you don’t give a shit either. The van is not yours. You can drive it into the ground. Not your money. The boss is paying for the extra fuel you burn by overtaking above the speed limit. Not you. The boss will pay for tyres and engines worn out before their time. The boss will pay for the clipped mirrors and scraped paintwork. The boss will pay when you whack the van into a ditch.

There’s a phone number printed on your van. I’d call it and complain but I’d probably get you on the other end. You’d take the call too, while driving. Because you know van drivers are exempt from using mobile phones while driving. After all, you are on the way to the next Centra/Spar/Mace for an emergency breakfast roll.

What you don’t know is that there is another number on your van. It’s called a registration number. You wouldn’t know that being a Mirror reading, Mar U supporter. The three of you who have gotten visits from the cops this month and the one of you who will be in court on the 2nd of August will know my name. That one of you will have the pleasure of meeting me face-to-face then. (Pity really - I would have liked to meet you two other guys too. But then we’ll meet soon, I’m sure). I wonder if your boss will pay your fine? I wonder if your boss will pay the extra insurance? I wonder if you will have a job?

Yours sincerely

Just cop on!

I won’t be around most of today. I had Charity pleading with me for hours yesterday. Pleading and begging for my body.

Now lads, before you go getting hot under the collar, this Charity is a real charity, not a pretty lady. But as with pretty ladies, I always end up giving into their demands. So today I’m off to deliver fixtures and fittings to a respite home two hours from here. Two hours in my little jalopy, Harrison*, loaded to the hilt with everything from clothes hangers to tablecloths to knives and forks, is not my idea of fun. It is at times like this I wish I had Eolaí’s bicycle.

There is also a reserve supply of coat hangers etc. in storage. These are replacements for when items are stolen. What, you cry! People availing of a respite home would steal from it?

Short answer, yes. I am running the risk of getting flamed for saying this. In much the same way that suggesting global warming is part of the earth’s natural cycle, some things seem no longer open to debate.

It was many years ago that I first gave my time to this charity. Like most, I started out with great enthusiasm. Not in a change-the-world way - I’m too long in the tooth to believe that - but nevertheless believing I could make some tangible difference. And like most, I had this belief that people struck down with a debilitating disease and indeed, those closest to them, develop a different view on life and by virtue of having to rely on others, for things we take for granted, become better people. That belief was quickly shattered.

At the first function I attended I phoned a wheelchair cab to take a lady home. The driver refused when he saw who it was. She had an account with this company which was three months overdue. I called another firm. Her account with them was overdue six months. She had been using one until they began to insist on their money then switched to the other. With great difficulty I got this large, inebriated lady and her chair into my little car and took her home. With even more difficulty I pushed her up the sloping drive with constant warnings not to scratch her husband’s new car.

At another, a man and his wife volunteered to sell raffle tickets. Hours later I found them at the bar. Not a single ticket sold. They bought one each to appease me. The wife won the grand prize - a holiday. And it fell to me to smile for the camera while presenting it. My friend, the photographer, kept singing Beautiful South’s Little Blue to me the rest of the evening: When most think that you’re holding back, I know you’re holding bile.

Then there was the guy who temporarily moved into the area because he figured this branch had more funds in the kitty than that in his own area. He applied for a grant for a treatment known even then to be experimental, ineffective and unapproved throughout the whole EU. He was refused on those grounds and ran a fundraising drive of his own. The treatment didn’t work and the clinic providing it was later closed down by the authorities. His allusion to the charity’s name in his campaign confused the public and regular donors gave to him thinking they were supporting the charity.

I became disillusioned and considered giving up. So many seemed to expect to be let away with things the able-bodied would not. But I stuck with it and came to realise that there are bad eggs in all walks of life. There are just as many wheelchair-wankers as walking-wankers. But for every bad egg there are so many more good ones. So that’s why Harrison is straining on his axles and I’m away for the day.

* Harrison because it’s a Ford and was used in the movie, Man about Dog. It got paid more than I did for that one.

Another week of doing the thing is over. The Time Thief was apprehended in the early hours of Saturday morning and has been detained under section 21 of the offences against normality act.

What a week. Each week doing the thing seems to hit me harder. Pure adrenalin keeps me going but when it stops it’s like being force fed twenty pints and then getting hit by the 7:30 bingo bus - being slowly rolled over by 30 fat auld wans all chattering at the top of their voices. The fatigue and headaches last two days.

Having said that, the last week was worth every pint and fat auld wan. I can now say that, given time, I am capable of building an industrial strength website. Like this WordPress thingy you are now looking at. Fair play to me!

This just in: The alleged Time Thief has been released on bail to appear again this day week. i.e. I have a major project to complete by 9:00 on Monday 19. Something I have successfully put out of my mind until now.

---

Now for my driving observation of the week: Why the fek do Irish motorists ignore the left lane on three lane carriageways?

This is yet another one of the weeks when I’m doing the thing. The thing runs from 9:00 to 17:30 which is fine. That’s like a working day. It’s the extra four, five or six hours to be tackled in the evening that that’s the killer. It devours time. The dishes would be piling up if there were any cooking done. The newspapers do pile up. The intention is always to read them at the weekend. But that never happens and they end up being fed to the recycle bin. Blogs don’t get read despite WebMon flashing at me pleadingly.

It takes up the whole week. Worse still, the thoughts of what’s to be faced in May, makes my hole weak. Age has a lot to do with it. You can’t teach an old mouse new clicks. Well you can, but it takes much longer.

I’m not looking for sympathy. Far from it. I took this on because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and I’m loving every minute most of it. Masochistic tendencies? This is simply an apology to my readers for blowing hot and cold - not posting regularly and not reading your posts. To both of you - I’m sorry.

---

Now, can either of you tell me why people with tanks on the right, insist on queuing on the left of petrol pumps? Have they not noticed those pipes are longer than NTL’s call queue and will stretch right around even the biggest car?