2012: The Death of Zippity Jim

If 2012 was a banquet, we are surely onto the cheese and biscuits - nibbling away at a bit of stilton, not because we are hungry, but because it is there. And we look across the table at the massive mess we have made while eating and consider our meal. What was that about? Did I choose my courses wisely? Was the starter... was the starter, like, January? Is that how this works? And that would make the main course... June? That doesn't seem right. How would that work? How is a banquet like a meal anyway? Which idiot thought this up?

All of which is my roundabout way of saying a) I love you and b) let's carry on looking back at some good and bad things about the year gone by.

Don't know why I didn't just say that in the first place, really...

I talked about some good things here and here. Today, a sad thing.


The Death of Zippity Jim

If 2012 was a meal (ahh, you thought I'd given that up, didn't you? Well that shows how little you understand my idiotic tenacity when it comes to metaphor)... if it was a meal, then the death of our beloved car, Zippity Jim, was like a tasty samosa that you picked up to stuff in your salivating mouth, only to have the samosa split and all the lovely spiced lamb and vegetables spilled out over the floor, leaving you with a flap of pastry and infinite sadness.

The universe tried to kill Jim a number of times this year, most notably when a massive great truck attempted to drive over us on the M1. Some dick in an articulated lorry decided to pull out without really looking, presumably thinking that all smaller vessels would simply get out of his way. For a size comparison, think of that bit at the beginning of Star Wars, where the tiny blockade runner flies over the screen, pursued by the massive, never-ending hulk of an Imperial Star Destroyer. Except the blockade runner is a red Saxo, and the Star Destroyer is piloted by a bearded tosser with poor spatial awareness and a tiny, tiny penis.

Luckily for us, the traffic was going very slowly, and so the collision manifested itself as a slow, grinding push. We slid sideways across the lanes, more surprised than anything else. It felt like the back of the car was being eaten by gravity itself. The truck driver, who I'm going to call Gonad, eventually realised what was going on, and ceased his attempt to park his massive lorry  in the boot of our car. Everything came to a stop.

I consider myself to be a fairly gentle and calm person, reacting with an even tempered grace to difficult situations. This, it turns out, is complete bollocks. I leaped out of the car, into the sluggish traffic, and stormed across the lanes towards the truck as if I was the Terminator and he was Sarah Connor's womb. Gonad had climbed down from his big blue penis substitute of a wagon and was standing there, looking confused.

I shouted some words at him. It would soon transpire that he knew no English, but I think my meaning was pretty clear. He was, to paraphrase, a bad man. An incompetent driver. What in the name of golly gosh did he think he was doing? This situation left a lot to be desired. Also, he had sex not only with whores, but with his own mother, who was also a whore, but this was additional sex to the sex he also had with whores.

He just stood there looking sorrowful, not really understanding the various indignities I was heaping upon him. I think he was German, or something. All I can remember about German lessons is that I fancied the teacher and that 'Rathouse' means 'Town Hall'. Possibly. So, while I could have communicated things like 'Attention! The Motorway! Noisy Spirit! Secret Police!", there was little I could do to express more complicated sentiments like "We need to wait here until the police come so we can work out how to facilitate an insurance claim. Also your cock is often used for pleasuring horses."

Anyway, this is all a bit of a pointless story, because this isn't how Jim died. Somehow this altercation with a huge metal behemoth only gave him a bit of a dent, and scraped a bit of paint off. Annoyingly, later in the year, a car drove slowly into the back of him and caused a slightly larger dent - a dent the insurance company deemed a terminal illness and had him written off.

We loved Jim. He took us all over the country, never once breaking down. His clock was impossible to set, except by accident. He was speedy and brave, and he was the first car I shared with another person. Our new car, Henry, is a fine thing and we are learning to love him too. But Jim was special, and I miss him.