You Drive Me Crazy.

So I've decided to start learning to drive again.

It's not that I want to, but my Mum got rather shouty down the phone t'other day saying that she didn't pay for over a year of lessons for me to give up after one spectacularly failed test (which happened last September when my reverse parallel parking took 10 minutes and ended with me parking across the whole cuntin' road, wanting to kill both myself and the examiner).

As I've now left sunny Biringham for wintery Wales, I'm ganna need a new instructor. Since November 2004 I had a lady called Sue, who was lovely once she realised that shouting at me had no effect. Before that I was taught by a man called Shaun, who I was not so lucky with.

In his forties and still living with his (probably dead, in the attic) parents, Shaun was a "bit odd" to say the least. His foot fetish was evident from my first lesson with him, when he took a keen interest in my shoes and choice of socks. This came to a head in our final lesson together when he actually lifted my left trouser leg to see my sock:

"Hairy legs - fuckin' hell".

And they're not especially hairy. It was also in this lesson that he asked me what he'd asked a number of his students:

"So Britney Spears, right? One night she comes round your house and she lets you fuck her and it's fantastic sex. Then after you've finished she gets a strapon out and begs to return the favour. What do you say?"

I said no. Although I didn't tell him that I wouldn't do her in the first place. I doubt he'd have understood that.

Shaun also had various publications in the back seat pockets, and could only really talk about the sex. The car's magic tree could only slightly mask the stench of semen and piss.

I'm hoping that my Wayulls driving instructor is more like Sue.


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