Blinding Bavarians

BMW’s with dipped beams and fog lights. Discuss.

I have a tale to tell, of such epic, and ground breaking proportion,y ou will quite possibly wet yourself.
Oh yes, a story of morality, of seeking the light and indeed, the truth. Are we sitting comfortably?

Then I’ll begin…

There once was a man. Let us presume he was middle aged-ish, quite probably in a successful and
comfortable place of employment. Wife, Mistress and three kiddywinkles all in tow. What could he
possibly want or need more in life?

A Beemer, d’uh.

And so, as the end of the year 2001, came to an ever-looming end, what better way to further prove
his manhood and extreme status, but by purchasing his lovely, stunning, style marginally above
substance, 3-series. The man is quite clearly, God. Well, ish.

The figure hugging seats, the rather clever electrical gubbins keeping him safe from all possible
dangers. This is one car, that did not make his quite considerable arse, look big. And all was well.

In gleaming Azure Blue (Some may have said Estoril, but it’s my story, and if I wish to make
glaring errors, then I shall!), he did roam. Up hill and down dale, when weather permitted of course.
Wouldn’t want to get some of that nasty mudsplash on his lovely, gleaming, all singing, all dancing
automobile.

After a few thousand miles of his luxury German-ness, it came to be that he would in fact, be travelling
along the A417 Cheltenham/Swindon road, mere minutes before I would witness the scenes that will
ultimately form the not entirely hilarious punchline of this very same story.

Let us say he was speeding (at least a few hundred miles per hour.) perhaps randomly changing lanes
without signalling, cutting up a few HGV’s on his merry way. All in a day’s work.

And then, what is this before him?! Could it be?! Surely not?! Yes! It is! It’s the slightest bend in the road
you could ever possibly imagine. Mere single figure degrees, barely even a slight camber.

Oh dear.

And as myself, as a perfect law abiding Nissan driver cruised past at Sixty Nine Point Nine, A quick
glance to my left to see what used to be a very pretty little blue car, embedded in the armco at the side
of the road. From the looks of things, The car had spun 170-180 degrees or so, leaving the front
drivers side nicely crumpled into the barrier and verge of this ever so tricky section of dual carriageway.

The reasoning behind this tragic event? The police wouldn’t like to say, nor would the driver, our good
friend and confidant, with the flourishing place of employment, the wife, the mistress and the three
delightful children, would even dare to admit the error of his ways.

May I reveal the truth behind the story, as I believe we all know to be true.

In the vague twilight of the early evening, the daylight ever so slightly waning, our friend had indeed
been travelling at a bazillion miles per second along the A417 Cheltenham to Swindon, he had indeed
randomly flicked between one lane and the other, and he had indeed enraged several artic drivers
(Big trucks, not eskimos.) along his way.

And here, at this very point in time, and most likely space too, The governing laws of the universe layeth’d
down their rule.

The ever so slight change of direction, the barely even worth noting camber, and the glaring fact that he’d
forgotten to flick the switch labelled ‘prat’ that engaged the blinding glare of his ‘driving lamps’.

The sweeping round went unnoticed.

The adverse camber, it was not known.

He could not see, how was he supposed to miss the side of the road, lit up with huge overpass-style
street lamps?! The tragedy! The horror! The sheer wankerishness of it all! How could it be!…

Only.

If only.

Sigh.
Mr M.Â

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