One disappointing aspect of the Irish film industry is that it is yet to set a movie in an NCT centre. It could be a moody thriller or an outright horror: your local testing facility has the feeling of dread and anxiety already built in.
Invariably they are on a side road off another side road: often peppered with suspension-shaking potholes. Animals that could be dogs but may well be wolves always seem to collect there, eyeing up the vehicles as they pass by; or more precisely, their tasty-looking occupants. There is always at least one abandoned car on these tiny roads. You can’t help but wonder what happened to the people who were inside it. The dog-wolves won’t tell you.
Of course, you know what the NCT building is like. Or most of you do: because the car testing system, like most systems, favours rich people. In our supposedly classless society, NCT testing couldn’t be more classist. If you’re well-off enough to change your motor every three years, you may well have never been inside one, and be unfamiliar with the metallic smell, the unworking vending machines, the arse-numbing chairs, the signs warning against abusing staff. Most of all, you won’t know about the emotional charge that runs through these places. It’s like waiting to be questioned by the secret police, dread clawing at your stomach, knowing that they will see right through any lie you try to spin. Just being here means you’re guilty.
And this sense is reinforced by the way NCT justice is applied. It’s not just, all too often, expensive bad news: there’s humiliation too.
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I’ll usually bring something to read when I go, but I rarely get past a few words. I can’t help but listen to some hapless driver feigning surprise that their tyres are bald or there’s a hole in their roof. I’ve heard people pointlessly argue that the flaw they failed on was actually fixed a couple of days previously. Even when the report has been handed over, the word FAIL leaping off the page, there is still an instinctive human urge to struggle; to try to talk their way out of it.
No one looks over while this public disgrace is being played out: many fear they will be next (half of all cars fail their initial NCT), while others smirk smugly to themselves. Even among those who can’t afford to buy a new car every couple of years, there is still a class distinction, and you can see it as soon as you walk in: there are those who are sitting, flicking through their phone or reading a newspaper. They are confident their car will pass, or if there’s something to be fixed, they can afford to pay for the work.
And there are those who opt to stand, faces pressed to the window, desperately searching for a clue as the inspector pokes and prods their vehicle from all angles, then drives it on to a hydraulic lift to give it an intense shaking: presumably, to see if any bits fall off. I’ve seen people on their phones as they watch this, giving a running commentary on how they think it’s going. The nervousness in their voice is palpable.
I’ve heard people being told that the repairs they need to get done will cost them hundreds, perhaps even thousands. Money that they don’t have. They’d be better off getting a new car. But they don’t have the money for that either.
[ My car is old and disgusting, but I just don’t care. It gets me aroundOpens in new window ]
Of course, we need a system to ensure that cars are roadworthy. But the statistics (and common sense) reveal that older cars are far more likely to fail: cars that are often owned by people who struggle to pay for their upkeep. Yet, like most people, they feel they have no option. Even if your car is declared unfit to drive, there’s no bus service from the NCT centre.
