Why NIDs (that is Non-Indicating Drivers to you and me) are the scourge of Britain’s roads

Forget the brainless antics of the white van man, the nervous anxiety of learner drivers, fearless couriers on their bat-out-of-hell mopeds and the painfully slow driving of old dears – there is a not-so-new annoyance which is adding to the woes of our day-to-day journeys.

Is it me, or are more and more drivers failing to indicate at roundabouts and junctions? The car in front is not a Toyota – it is, in fact, a twattish NID.

Why do we care if those little bulbs or LEDs do not flash up to let us know what direction the person is front/coming from an exit at a roundabout  is heading? Do we have a right to know? A duty even? 

It seems a lack of indication by the said villain sends a message to our brain. Something along the lines of the following: “oh, you bastard. Don’t bloody indicate then, see if I care (which you clearly do by this stage). I could have f’kin gone then had you shown me you were taking the first exit. Dick.”

It is not as if we have not got enough to fret about on the roads. If it is not endless queues setting your blood pressure rising it is the sight of that shitbag in the rear view mirror. You know the one I am on about – fake tan, chiselled-jaw, aviator sunglasses, roof down on their decade-old Beamer, with the stereo blasting out that RnB (Rubbish n Bollocks) tune you do not want to admit you have secretly hummed along to while taking a Number Two.

Christ, imagine all these components put together – your sitting in the middle lane of a jam-packed M25 when Alex Reid cuts in front of you from the ‘fast lane’ without any prior warning.

Indicate? Terminate more like.

Nick Griffin: please Queenie old bean, let me in!

‘Poor old Nick.’ ‘Did you see that racist fella get kicked out by the Queen?’ ‘He was holding his invitation like a Strictly Come Dancing scorecard’.

These are some fo the comments I read or heard (well, I made the last one up) after BNP leader Nick Griffin was refused entry to the Queen’s garden party at Bucks Palace  for using his invitation for ‘overtly political purposes’.

Now, do not get me wrong, I am not exactly known for my love of politics. In fact I can’t stand it. Watching a packed room full of overpaid idiots baulk, scoff and make sheep noises at each other while one is trying to get their point across (usually incorrectly if it is DavCam) is merely a snapshot of modern Britain – unruly, unrestrained, rude and brash.

Anyway, back to that naughty boy Nicholas. The oogly boogly-eyed right winger (not in a 4-4-2 diamond formation sense) bore the embarrassed look of a teenager that was unable to get into a tawdry nightclub and join his spotty friends because he was wearing a roll neck or, even worse, boat shoes.

As an MEP he has every right to attend but Griffin’s penchant for opening his gob in front of a willing TV/radio reporter saw his invitation snatched from his sweaty palms.

Despite describing it as an “outrage” Griffin will have been delighted at the furore it created – miles more mileage in the story than him actually being allowed in to sup Pimms with the rest of the Queer as Folk.

Regardless of what you think of him and the BNP, and what they stand for, you cannot deny his involvement has not given politics a shot in the arm. Like that old school sometimes-racist himself, Prince Phillip, trouble seems to follow Griffin wherever he goes.

So, to squeeze further comic relief out the whole laughable ’no bigots allowed’  saga I wondered what Nick Griffin could have dreamt the acronym BNP stood for as he got to terms with his very public snub….

Barred? No Problem.

Banned Nazi People.

Bloody Nice Palace!

Bah, No Pimms.

Best Not Poo

Bent Nose Policy

Bollocks Not Polite.

So much for the driest start for 71 years – the rain has arrived and it wants to claim victims

Okay, it is a slightly odd topic for my first blog but hey, it is happening and it is topical. Or should that be tropical….?

Just when the Met Office warned us of imminent hosepipe bans because of thirsty reservoirs, etc, the heavens open.

Now, like many of you I am not a fan of rain. Sure, it serves its purpose but boy, we love to hate it.

What amuses me is the various ways in which rain manifests itself. When it pisses down unexpectedly our defence mechanism suddenly kicks in. We head for any shelter we can find – a butcher shop awning, an old dear with the smallest brolly ever and shop doorways (something the homeless frown upon. Well, it is like passers-by suddenly arrowing for the entrance of your terraced house in the peaceful burbs before claiming squatters rights).

So, why the terror? It is hardly acid rain or napalm (death, two fine metal bands there…) yet we leg it like we are racing Usain Bolt for the last iced bun in Gerrards Bakery. Bonkers but brilliant.

We do not run away from showers (in the amenity sense) or throw on our swimming trunks at the pool only to skirt around the edges as if a small child had let go of his bowels under the water.

For some reason it is a hinderance, a thorn in the side to get drenched outdoors, mainly in the day anyway.

For the ladies all those hours in front of a mirror piling on the slap and curling the hair is a waste of time if you venture out brolly-less.

There was a time when blokes would not give two hoots about receiving a mid-afternoon golden shower from God. But hey, it is the era of the metrosexual – a bit of rain will ruin the quiff, man bag and see the guyliner stream all over the pretty little boat races.

Yup, even at this stage of my blog I am starting to realise rain is a pretty boring subject, but I digress.

Even pets seem to hate it, dogs particularly. They are acutely aware they stink once their hair comes into contact with rain. Hence the term, it smells of wet dog. Unpleasant.

Anyway, one positive vibe from the rain I am getting right now is its amazing ability to calm. I have been having a stressful time of it lately but there is something appealing, if a little sadistic, that I am here, warm, indoors with the world at my fingertips while hundreds of thousands of hardy souls are soaked to the bone.

Final thought on the matter for today: either do this yourself or watch someone else do it – go outside, tilt your head back and open your mouth to the acrid delights of rainwater. Yeah, you do look stupid and yeah, it probably is your cum face.

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