Drivers, pedestrians and small mammals of the United Kingdom, I have an important announcement that concerns you.
Be very afraid.
Yes, next step on the path of Rhys’ Passage Into Manliness™ after
spreading my Welsh seed liberally travelling Europe is to pass my driving test. The news first broke on the BBC, and if my past form on Gran Tourismo is anything to go by, I will be a rubbish driver. I’m known for lapses of concentration, and not being particularly confident when using tools that can kill or seriously injure myself (a statement taken from my Year 8 Design & Technology Report). I’m a rubbish man, much better at things like girly things like cooking (though that took me a while to get used to as Guy will surely testify), and if it wasn’t for the fact that I like beers, boobs and ball games, I’d ask myself questions.
But then, something happened as I was driven back from the football (2-1 to the Bay. Come on the Seagulls!), I felt that I wanted to learn to drive. I’ve always been happy to be driven, now I wanted to be in control, because I’m sure that given the lapses of concentration, the nervousness and what have you, I reckon I could be a pretty decent, safe driver.
So I applied for my licence, and collared Sibz on Friday night, and – in the midst of boring him with the same regurgitated crap I tell everybody about The Best Holiday Ever™ – I asked him who he passed his test with. For good reason. Aled, my brother, took 3 goes to pass his test. I want to do better than him. Ideally first, as – with the notable exception of Han “Oooh look an Aston Martin! SMASH!” Eruanna – every single first time passer I’ve been in the car with is a pretty decent driver.
So, on the day after the waste of space Lewis Hamilton collapsed like all British Winners famously do, I annonce my next quest. The quest to become a driver.
Wish me luck.