Speed- I Gonzalez

I was made attend the Speed Awareness course lately, by someone who didn't agree that it was secretly cool to have points on your Driving Licence. Imagine the depression; an Easter Bank holiday, four hours at an overhead projector and the vending machine was out of order. We were registered by a man with two first names, Gary Gordon, and while we waited,everyone actually sat about comparing how far over the speed limit they were when they were caught, as if that was in any way helpful or interesting. However things looked up rapidly when Gary Gordon Got Going (possible new Porn film title)as there was a funny wee man at the front who didn't seem to follow the instructions and so shouted out answers when he was meant to be voting with his interactive remote device thing, or made hearty grunts of agreement at Gary Gordon's more shocking anecdotes, thus making himself look both swotty and guilty. We were asked to write down why we speed and your man just wrote 'happy'. Mind you,Gary Gordon says people often blame the song they were listening to. God, you'd get done all the time if Benny Hill's 'Ernie' was still number one. Then we had to draw a Stop sign and a Give Way sign which hardly anyone could. The wee man went for a triangle with 'Slow Down'written outside it rather shakily, presumably he hoped this would do the job for both. I only hope he learned the difference, as I saw him depart, in a navy blue corduroy Casey Jones cap and an enormous Jag. Turned out I'd underestimated him-he got the vending machine going in the break and for a while it looked like he might be borne aloft in triumph by an ecstatic crowd of 'doing 37 in a 30 mile zone' rakers on a sugar high. I learned to drive in a nearby town I still hate to visit. According to my instructor's mantra, it was exclusively populated by sight-impaired individuals who cared not a jot for a pavement;'LOOK BEHIND YOU, LADY WITH A PRAM/EMERGENCY STOP, WEE BOY WITH A FOOTBALL'would be intoned deadpan in every lesson, soon after he'd eyed my feet disapprovingly since I didn't seem to have 'driving shoes'. I shudder to think what these might be. Best I don't dwell on it. Stuart tried very hard to maintain the grand facade of a thriving, long-established business; he was very dapper and the cheques had to made out to S.D.A. I presumed these were his initials until loftily informed it stood for 'Safe Driving Academy'.He implied he had assistants and the like and was right and cagey about his domestic circumstances. The by-appointment-to her-majesty veneer was tarnished somewhat when I would ring up and be told, clearly by the wife, that he was 'at his tea' or 'in the bathroom'.Working on his comb-over, I can only hope. I might become a Driving Instructor later in life. People could do with my insights on how to put mascara on in speed bump areas and pluck their eyebrows during rush hour. Better still, follow in the footsteps of Harry the singing taxi driver, who used to pick up me and my sisters on nights out, belting out a bit of Tom Jones or Angry Anderson; 'SUDDENLEEEEEE..LIFE HAS NO MEANING FOR MEEEEEE'.You used to have to tell him to open his eyes.