I was pleasantly chilled. I’d just had a very good day at the Silverstone Classic press day – all high-octane fumes, classic machinery and straight-through exhausts. I was almost home – and then this bastard struck.
Graunch, bang, wallop, spinal compression, lip bitten, taste of blood, car filled with foul-mouthed language. That was it. I’d had it. This bastard pot-hole, a relic from the winter, had taken a bite of my car one time too many. ENOUGH, ENOUGH. Another MoT looming and now, probably, another set of coil springs for the second year running.
I abandon my car and in full-blown Victor Meldrew mode, pick up the camera, start angrily stalking with bruised buttocks and snapping. Just look at the size of it, I’ve seen counties smaller than this.
On what planet does it make sense for the council to waste thousands of pounds reducing road capacity and on-street parking via ‘pinch points’ and double yellows, instead of maintaining our roads? Planet clueless…? Planet my mother dropped me on my head when I was a toddler…? Planet no-one else would employ me and it was either this or standing in for crash-test dummies…?
When, just when, are they going to consider doing slightly more than framing this monster with white spray-paint? Is this the opening to the new Australian Express Tunnel, the beginnings of the Westbury Grand Canyon (designed to lure more tourists to this sleepy ’burb) or is this yet another part of the car-loathing conspiracy? Leave it there long enough and there won’t be any serviceable cars left in North Bristol and instead we’ll all have to use bicycles. Only, of course, there’s a vast super-sized pot-hole in that idea…