WHEN I rule the world, people like the bloke at the wheel of a BMW Z4 I observed the other day will be shown no mercy.
When I and I alone make all the rules, I shall ensure that at least three-quarters of all Britain’s drivers are removed from the road on a permanent basis.
I’m not yet sure exactly how this will work – execution seems a tad extreme, but on the other hand, they’d be likely to ignore a straightforward driving ban.
But the end result will be that our roads will be far less crowded and that all the bad drivers – ditherers, nut cases, phone users and so on – will be banished.
I consider my Grand Plan from time to time, usually after witnessing a particularly insane piece of roadcraft. Sometimes it is a be-hatted fossil dawdling along at 10mph blissfully unaware that there is anything else on the road or indeed that anything much has changed since Hitler was given a bloody nose.
More often, though, it is a bloke who has found the accelerator but has not yet mastered the subtle art of knowing when and how hard to use it. This person tends to be either a smug-faced piece of slime at the wheel of something powerful and expensive, or a zitty youth revving the intestines out of an ancient engine using its last gasp to pull a rusting Vauxhall Nova. On other occasions it may be someone at the wheel of his employer’s large white van.
My current state of exasperation was caused by a succession of incidents that I witnessed recently in the course of a routine 50-mile journey one Friday evening around rush-hour.
I remember reading that statistics crunchers have concluded that Friday evenings, when people were finishing work and heading home for the weekend, were the blackest time of the week for road accidents. How right they were!
This catalogue of chaos began with the aforementioned Beemer pilot, who raced up to within inches of my rear bumper, filling my rear-view mirror, even though I was driving at the legal speed limit at the time. As a queue of oncoming vehicles hove into view a few hundred yards ahead, Beemer Man pulled out and rocketed past me, causing the oncoming driver to flash his lights in alarm.
Over the next few miles, the car did the same to one vehicle after another, always in the face of oncoming traffic or when approaching a blind bend. I kept half-expecting to round a curve and find an upside-down Z4 convertible at the centre of a fireball but somehow he obviously survived. That sort usually do – it’s the innocent ones who get wiped out.
Another grinning loon at the wheel of a German speed wagon, and a number of van drivers, obviously hell bent on an early start to their weekend of alcohol abuse and cat-kicking, did nothing to lift my mood or my spirits.
I was happy and relieved to get safely home in one piece, vowing noisily to try and avoid the main roads of our great country at Friday rush-hours.