There’s nothing quite like a shitty, rainy day to bring you back down to Earth. Today I felt like the Grim Reaper had paid me a visit during the early hours of the morning, viciously scooped out my brain with a rusty ice-cream scoop, tossed it around in a wheelie bin half-full of rancid bin juice and stuffed it indiscriminately back inside my skull like a washed-up camper aggressively trying to get their sleeping bag back in its cover the morning after a big night on the turps.

I saw a Nissan Micra with massively oversized mags on it today and boy did it take me back to my teenage years! Growing up in a coastal Tasmanian town, a large emphasis was placed on the type of vehicle you drove. Indeed, often people were recognisable purely by the type of car that they got around town in.

“You know, Bazza, drives the red Gemini?”

Suffice to say, I wasn’t known about town for my choice of wheels, a 1986 white Nissan Pintara Station Wagon, one of the more nondescript vehicles doing the rounds on the sunny Northwest Coast. The steering was so bad on that thing that it literally drooped into corners like a fat man on an underpowered mobility scooter.

I did manage to get it up to 198kms per hour down the hill into the Meander Valley once though… but that’s another story.

People would slave away at their jobs during the week and save all of their pennies in order to buy another accessory or upgrade for their rapidly depreciating pride and joy instead of saving this money to buy a car actually worth maintaining.

The horror…

Of all the cars that used to ‘do blockies’ (a term for driving your vehicle around the well-worn route throughout the city & beach, generally on a Friday or Saturday night and generally in the company of like-minded individuals otherwise known as fuckwits) in Devonport, my favourite car to watch people bolt on assorted bits of shit to was the two-door Mitsubishi Lancer Coupe. I swear to the Gods that there must’ve been a checklist that these drones were ticking items off from for their upgrades because they all followed the same procurement path.

Must gets:

1)      17 inch alloy wheels with ludicrously low profile tyres that constantly scrape the wheelguards that you neglected to flare to accommodate them.

2)      A massively loud, obnoxious looking exhaust pipe that provides no increase in performance whatsoever.

3)      Tinted windows so dark that it’s legitimately impossible to see out of them

4)      A bonnet scoop that doesn’t actually lead to the engine.

5)      A comically enormous aftermarket tachometer (because you really need to know when you’re at optimum rev-levels to take advantage of your HUGE 1.8L 4 cylinder engine).

6)      A huge, obstructive sticker on the back window; ‘Unit’ for the boys and ‘Evil Angel’ or ‘Be Careful, the Bitch Bites!’ for the girls.

7)      A really loud, grating, low-quality stereo system including a 15-inch subwoofer that makes your entire car rattle like a maraca when you’re pulled up at the lights.

8)      A cartoonish rear wing/spoiler that provides no aerodynamic benefit whatsoever.

Every time I pull up behind one of these cars, a small part of me dies. Sure, there’s the initial laugh, but it’s followed by a long period of sombre reflection that people like this actually exist in the World…

Then there’s the crew that imports Japanese vehicles into Australia so that they can drive around town perpetually in second gear, spooling up their over-boosted turbo so that their blow-off valve initiates as they pass you at speed while you’re walking to the corner shop to get some bread.

Did you ever notice how most of the fucking chumps driving these ‘import tuners’ around have got one of those homemade For Sale adhesive stickers perpetually glued to the back windscreens of their cars? If I had a dollar for every time I’d seen an R32/33/34 Nissan Skyline with a For Sale sticker on it, I’d have enough to fucking buy one.

But I wouldn’t, because I’m not a fucking idiot…

/end communication