Looks like I'm finally gonna pass my driving test – this tester dude's crazier than The Stig, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
‘NICE CAR,” he goes.
See, I’ve never been one to count my chickens before they hatch? But when the dude says that to you – what? – 30 seconds into your driving test, you immediately know he’s cool, certainly not the kind who’s going to fail you just because you’re a just-turned-30 Trustafarian sitting in a brand new 5 Series.
“Actually, thanks,” I go. “It was, like, a birthday present to myself. The big three-oh, blah blah blah,” and I watch him rub his hand along the leather interior – real, by the way.
He’s there, “I don’t think we’ll be seeing many 10 registrations on the road this year, the way things are going,” and I’m like, “Yeah, it’s supposed to be pretty bad out there,” because I want to come across like I care.
“Indicate,” he goes.
See, that’s me trying to drive and think about world affairs at the same time. I indicate, then take the turn out of the test centre and on to Orwell Road. Some dude behind me ends up blasting me with his horn.
“There was actually plenty of room for me to pull out,” I try to go. The tester dude gives the rear-view mirror a twist to check out the goy, who’s attached himself, practically, to my bomper. He goes, “Put your foot down,” and at first, roysh, I presume I’ve, like, misheard him? I’m there, “Dude, I’m already, like, 10K over the speed limit here – and that’s habit more than anything.”
“Come on,” he goes, egging me on, “he’s driving a shitty little Golf – and he’s beeping at you? Show him what this car can do.” So I end up shrugging, then just giving it some Cole Haan leather and, 10 seconds later, the Golf’s just a speck in my rear-view.
The tester just cracks his hole laughing, obviously seriously impressed. “Now that was a piece of driving,” he goes. “We’ll take a right just up ahead. Again, indicate . . .” See, I keep forgetting in all the excitement.
“So this is, what, your first time sitting the test?” he goes and suddenly it’s, like, my turn to laugh. I’m there, “It’s actually, like, my 12th?” “What?” “Well, 14th if you count the two times I went down the country to sit it.” “14th?” “That’s the thing – I can’t believe you don’t know me. See, I’ve become a bit of a celebrity around the various testing centres. The last time I sat it, for instance, the dude stuck a Padre Pio medal on the dashboard.” He laughs. I’m getting an unbelievable vibe from him.
He’s like, “Look, it’d be ridiculous for me to expect you to drive like a robot. Because you know and I know that the second you’ve passed your test, you’re never going to drive like that again. No, what I look for, first and foremost, is confidence . . .” Of course that’s muesli to my ears. “Confidence happens to be one of the things I’m big on. You could even say it’s my thing . . .” Uh-oh, I’m suddenly thinking, that traffic light’s been orange for a long time. Except it’s definitely too late to stop. “Ah, fang it,” the dude just goes, like it’s not a big deal. “I saw nothing,” so I end up driving straight through it.
“Loads of people say that, don’t they,” I find myself suddenly going, “that it’s more who you get than how you actually drive?”
He’s like, “Well, I think there’s a lot of truth in that.”
“See, a few times I sat it, I got the impression that I failed before the examiner even sat in the cor?”
He goes, “They have to fail a certain percentage, you see.”
I’m there, “Well, with me it was always small stuff – as an example, not leaving sufficient distance between my cor and the cor in front . . .”
“It’s any little thing,” he goes.
“Yeah, see, my attitude, especially when it comes to motorways – which I know I shouldn’t technically be on, by the way – is that the outside lane is for me and the inside lane is for everyone else. That’s what my wife says about me. Even though we’re actually separated . . .”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Hey, ain’t no thing but a Chandler Bing. We were probably always better as mates.”
“What else have you failed on?”
“Well, one of the times I failed it down the country, I was on this really narrow country road. See, they tell you it’s easier to pass it in Wicklow but that’s actually horse-shit. So this woman’s coming towards me and she’s driving an Acura MDX – thing’s built like a focking petrol bowser. But she won’t pull on to the grass verge to let me past – afraid of getting her tyres dirty. So I wound down the window and I was like, ‘Er, there’s a focking reason it’s called an off-roader, you know . . .’”
“And you were failed for that?”
“Lack of courtesy, was the official reason . . . Well, I also killed a pony.” He scribbles something in his clipboard, then goes, “Okay, you can return to the test centre now.”
I’m like, “Really?”
“I’ve seen all I need to see. I’m happy to tell you – you’ve passed your driving test!”
I punch the air, then instinctively go to text Sorcha.
“Oh,” I suddenly remember, “I shouldn’t technically be doing this, should I?”
“Text away,” he goes. “You’ve passed after 14 attempts – you deserve it.” I’m there, “Well, just so you know, I’m actually putting in a line about you – I’m telling her that you’re the soundest tester I’ve ever had.”
I take the right turn back into the testing centre and it’s then that I realise that something is wrong. You could say it’s, like, a fifth sense I have? There’s, like, a crowd of people outside in the corpork and they’re all staring straight at my cor. When I get closer to them, I realise that three or four of them are, like, Gords.
And then it hits me.
“You’re not even a driving tester, are you?” He doesn’t get a chance to answer. Suddenly, roysh, two men in white coats step from the little huddle of people and approach the passenger side of the cor.
“Come on, Tommy,” one of them goes, “you know that’s not your job anymore.” Some other dude taps on the window and tells me to wind it down, which I do. He says sorry about that but you’re going to have to reschedule. “By the way,” he goes, “do you know you don’t have your seatbelt on?”
rossocarrollkelly.ie
