No. No. Hell NO!

Some stuff that makes me cringe

“Didn't you get my text / email?”

Er...probably. Possibly I thought “it's from that boring / moaning / needy / whining / miserable git”, and therefore didn't open it, or opened it and saw it's just the usual rubbish and ignored it. Maybe I got it and opened it and read it and have since forgot about it. I get about sixty of the things a day, not including the ones pretending to be from Barclays and the Halifax and Lloyds and other banks where I don't have an account to give details of to a Nigerian fraudster, not including the ones that start “Hello, my friend, you stand to inherit a fortune...” from a Nigerian fraudster, and not including the ones from Amazon, Machine Mart, Sports Direct or Ikea. Of those sixty, just perhaps yours wasn't that urgent or memorable. Are you the bard of text? The James Joyce of email? Or, actually are you more of an Archer? Do you get there and their mixed up? Do you mangle the English language? Perhaps I read your email and since that trauma have been in a self-induced amnesia trying to forget?

“Can you just fill in these forms?”

Can I force-feed you your own forms until you die, you dreary waste of space?

“Did you come up the 365?”

Oh God. Here we go. This is what I did. We now have these SatNav things. I'm not particularly proud of this, but I put in your postcode, and zoned out. I don't know if I've been via Ashford, the A91/2, or the planet Zog. I've zoned out to the cd or the radio and now I'm here and alive again. Yes, driving an automatic is fine. Yes, I do feel in control of the car. Funny how blokes who have to have the latest Carlos Fandango drill (no, I'm not spinning a handle to drill a hole in the wall, I've got the Makita Hokey Cokey 2000 with the built in laser, plumb-level and automatic chuck-selection); the biggest and best barbecue (gas bottle, check; six rings, check; motorised trolley, check; just the kitchen cooker, but outside, check) and a huge widescreen telly (with voice-activated channel change and self-destruct facility) don't think an automatic constitutes 'proper driving'. Horse and cart enthusiasts probably said the same thing. Well, I properly get in at one end and properly get out at the other, so what's not proper? The sooner they introduce cars that drive themselves while you watch the test match, read a book or do the crossword the better. I might even feel less tired all the time if I could sleep in transit.

“Where are you?”

Bit like the above. In the driver's seat, facing forwards. Third carriage from the back, next to a little runt with terminal BO who wants his seat and a fair portion of mine. If you want an ETA, ask for one. Next town along tells you nothing if the traffic is at a standstill and it's going to be hours.

“Did you see...”

No. I. Didn't. I studiously avoided. Please. Don't. Tell. Me. About. The telly.

“...you'd really enjoy (insert name of mindless rubbish programme here).”

Nope. I'd really enjoy beating you to death with your severed arm, or giving you a rolled-up Radio Times enema. I'd really enjoy clubbing you senseless with Ant and Dec before burning them at the stake in the Celeb Executions Season Finale Joan of Arc Challenge. So they could know how she felt, as the flames rose, to her Roman nose, and her Walkman started to melt.