EMISSIONS:Raindrops and roses and pink satin sashes may not make the list, but there a few things that our man likes
'YOUR COLUMN is very angry," a distant relative told me at a party over Christmas. "You're always giving out stink. Is there nothing you actually like?"
"Yes," said I, a tad hurt. "I like lots of things."
For instance, I like tearing around racetracks in anything with four wheels. And I love torque steer.
I like Lancia Fulvia coupés. A lot. I have a sweet spot for the new Fiat 500. Odd-looking it may be, but so is Angelina Jolie and she's universally revered.
It's not just the Italians though, I like the Germans too. The Audi A5 is the sexiest new coupé you can buy and the BMW M5 Touring runs the Citroën DS Safari close as best looking estate ever made.
I like waving at people with five fingers when they drive courteously and with one when they don't. I like letting drivers out at junctions just to see the look on their faces. And I like not letting eejits in SUVs and gougers in Imprezas out for exactly the same reason.
I like laughing at goons in Nissan Kamikazes as they ruin their ridiculous fibreglass front splitters and bucket exhausts on speedbumps.
I like driving on motorways when surrounded by drivers who know what they are doing. Which is rare enough.
I like slowing to a crawl on narrow roads to annoy tailgaters. And, though I probably shouldn't admit it, I like dabbing my brakes every so often in an effort to get them to soil their upholstery.
You know that Irish habit of flashing other motorists to warn them of a Garda speed trap? I like flashing at oncoming speeders so they drive like nervous grannies for the next ten kilometres wondering where the cops are. Cruel, I know. But then, so is driving recklessly and ploughing into cars full of kids.
I like singing theatrically at the top of my lungs along to the stereo when stuck in traffic and not giving two hoots what anyone thinks of me.
I like the satisfaction of completing a parallel park in one swoop.
I like leaving sarky notes under the windscreen wipers of ignorant muppets who park illegally in disabled spots.
I like sticking my kids in the back of my vintage Beemer and going for a cruise. Not only do they love the huge expanses of glass that give them the impression of driving around in a goldfish bowl, but it gives me an alibi to warble along to Abba songs, the words of every one of which are implanted on my brain since doing exactly the same thing with my parents as a nipper in my Dad's Citroën DS.
I like reciprocating the cheery greeting I get every morning - rain, hail or snow - from the shivering Brazilian who hands me my free newspaper at the train station.
I like beating barging oiks to seats on the train. I like sticking on my headphones and retreating into the world of John Coltrane or obscure Jamaican dub and pretending I'm not drenched, freezing cold and wedged between a woman the size of an obese hippo and a man who smells like his pockets are full of slurry.
I like tinkering under the bonnet of my cars despite knowing as much about engines as I do about Etruscan semantics.
Most of all, I like venting in my little corner of the newspaper about all the stuff I hate: the bad drivers, stupid roads, incompetent officials, pompous politicians and general gombeenery that surrounds us all and is just asking for a good kicking. Is that enough for you?
I looked at the spot where my relative had been standing. He was gone. I think he'd wandered off to be sick somewhere. I tend to have that effect on people. Especially when I'm trying to be nice.
