Convertible Cars Are Pointless

Cabriolets, soft tops, convertibles... whatever you call them. Why? Just, why? I live in England, not California so why would I want a convertible car? It rains on more than one day in three and the year’s average temperature is likely to be around ten degrees Celsius. Yes, we can experience temperatures into the thirties but buying a car just for those five days a year seems a bit much.

But cabriolets do have a roof, don’t they? Of course, but they’re made from nylon (probably) and offer the same shelter from the wind as sticking your head in a plastic bag does before stepping into a wind tunnel. I know there are now metal roofs and I’m sure they’re great. The fact is that the convertible version of the car weighs about six tonnes more than the standard version due to all the extra crap it needs. That big, fat folding metal roof is heavy you know and it has to be stowed somewhere, so forget about being able to put anything in the boot. Or the back seat.

They also bolt loads of bars and struts under the car too to stiffen it (since chopping something in half normally affects its ability to not go all wobbly at the first provocation). Your car now weighs six times more than the model which has a roof. So it’s more expensive, noisier and slower. Oh, and that means it’ll drink more fuel too (but you’ll look good in it for five days a year).

Let me reaffirm that last statement; you’ll look good in it for five days a year. To be fair you might not look good in it ever, but the people who drive around when it is two degrees above freezing with the roof down do not look cool. Obviously they look freezing (almost literally), but that’s not what I mean. It smacks of people trying to justify buying a cabriolet in the first place. If it’s two degrees you do not need the roof down. You don’t want it down either. I wouldn’t have my window down at that temperature and yet these guys will go around trying to convince you that they’re getting some use from their soft top car. I’d let it slide if they were Eskimos and thought two degrees was hot, but they aren’t. It’s given away by the fact that they invariably have the windows wound up and the heating on full blast. Sometimes they wear a hat too. Stop it people, it looks absurd.

Do you know what sounds absurd? Diesel engines. They sound like tractors and I’m yet to meet anyone who defends the clattering, ear assaulting din that they make. With me on that? Fine. You know what does sound great? A petrol V8, and that’s a fact. With those points in mind I’m willing to concede that a convertible V8 would be great with the roof down, but still only when it’s warm enough. Do you know what would never be great with the roof down? Yes, that’s right, a diesel. Not only do you get cold but also get reminded that you’re driving something which sounds like a Massey Ferguson (which, with all that extra weight and the diesel inspired loss of power, is probably about as fast as one too).

Seriously, unless you own a dozen cars and can choose when it comes out to play you need to move about five hundred miles south of England before I’ll accept that a convertible is worthwhile.

Getting Old

At thirty-odd years old it would be a touch harsh to say that I’m old. I don’t wear my trousers around my chest and I don’t own any slippers or pyjamas just yet. Having said that, my body keeps reminding me that I’m getting older.

Actually my body’s been doing it for years, the bastard. My first grey hairs appeared at age seventeen. Yes, seventeen. I was at school with bloody grey hair. I’m sure some of the kids thought I was really thirty and was having to repeat a lot of years. Ever since then I’ve been plagued with people thinking they’re being genuinely helpful in pointing it out (just in case I don’t own a mirror). To make matters worse (or better, depending on your viewpoint when it comes to grey hair), my hair then started falling out. It was growing old and dying right in front of me (well, on top of me actually). Upon seeing some photos of me which displayed my growing monk’s bald patch I headed straight for a barber’s and had the lot shaved off. I don’t understand these guys who try and deny it; holding out for as long as they can with a receding hairline (or massive forehand, if you will) and a dodgy comb-over. No-one’s fooled by it. Ironically, because I shave mine as short as possible a couple of people who met me after I shed my locks commented that I must do it through choice “because you’re not bald, are you?” Anyway, I’m now told that (when combined with my round head) I look like Ricky Gervais’s sidekick, Karl Pilkington. I watch little TV so I’m unsure if it’s a kind comparison or not.

For years at school I never understood why sportsmen were always getting injured and taking months to return. I was like Captain Scarlet. Now? Not so much. Doing any kind of regular running ends up producing shin splints. If you don’t know what this is, it’s effectively muscle trauma and/or multiple (small) stress factures of the shin caused by repeated impact. I’ve tried everything to stop it but it flares up if I run more than a couple of times a week (I don’t mean to the bar when they call last orders). It is incredibly painful and takes weeks to properly subside again. To people who haven’t experienced it, I describe it as having dozens of tiny women in sharp, pointy shoes kick you in the shins repeatedly. I’m aware that some people find this thought appealing, however, I’m confident there will be a site (or a million sites) on the internet catering for the person of that particular disposition. It has no place here though, you weirdo.

What else? Well some years ago I involuntarily jumped over the front of my motorbike at about seventy miles per hour. I’ve no idea if it hurt at the time because I was rewarded with concussion and amnesia. As well as the minor injuries which cleared up fairly quickly I also hurt my shoulder and ankle. I’ve no idea what I did but I guess at some kind of ligament damage. I say “guess” because the hospital would have genuinely struggled to show less interest. The upshot was that I couldn’t go to the gym for almost three years because any sustained exercise would leave my shoulder useless for the week after. Thankfully that’s healed now. It was over seven years ago and my right ankle’s still not perfect though. It never feels as strong, sometimes it aches and it is much more susceptible to injury than the left.

It makes you wonder what older life must be like for people who routinely smash themselves up. Stuntmen probably can’t get out of bed when they reach forty. Anyone who regularly competes on a BMX or skateboard is probably composed of so many metal pins and rods that they get rugby tackled by airport security.

Even though I try to avoid flying through and air and landing on things which are hard, I hate to think what I’m going to be like in later life. The male life expectancy in the UK is seventy seven years old. I’m not even halfway there and sometimes I feel like I’ve had the crap kicked out me already. That doesn’t bode well, especially if my recovery powers continue to go downhill faster than a fat kid on a sledge at Christmas.

I really don’t want to be one of those doddery old people who takes an age to move out of the way (and craves attention when you push past them and they break a hip). I reckon I will be though. That’ll be my intolerance coming back and biting me in the arse in the best way possible (and will merely serve to compound my bitterness). I’ll be the one huffing and puffing as I attempt to climb a couple of steps on the way into Boots for some incontinence pads. The kids behind me when inform me I smell of “wee” and I’ll probably fall over while trying to whack one of them with my walking stick. And break my hip.

Captain Scarlet my arse.

Flip Flops

The heat wave which has swept the country has been very welcome after the last couple of forgettable summers. However, being too hot can be very uncomfortable and its effects are demonstrated by the change of clothing worn by the general populace. One thing that puzzles me though is the infatuation with flips flops. I perfectly understand their place if you're unfortunate enough to live in an impoverished third world country and you're below the bread line. If you have to trek five miles carrying a bucket with five holes in it just to fetch your daily water supply then the chances are you're not doing it in the latest Nike Air Jordans. Why, though, do women who own a dozen other pairs of real shoes choose to wear a couple of bits of foam held together with cheap plastic?

The weather’s warm, yes I get it, but that's not enough I’m afraid. Shoes are generally supposed to offer comfort and support to your feet. You could also argue they're supposed to look good. Flip flops do none of these things. Do your feet really get that sweaty? You really ought to see a doctor or something about that. Put it like this, I work in an air-conditioned office and the bastard things were everywhere. It may be thirty two degrees outside but inside it's no warmer than a mid-October afternoon and, roughly, the same temperature as the rest of the year at your desk. You don't feel the urge to wear flip flops in January, do you?

Why does this concern me? Well they look ridiculous but that on its own is not enough to be bothered about. If it was then my next rant would be picking on teenagers who reckon they look awesome by hanging their trousers down below their arses and waddling like penguins when they walk. No, it's the infernal 'flap, flap, flap' sound as they walk past which makes me want to tear the offending items from their feet and force feed them to the owner. If you want to show off your scabby feet and half painted toe nails then, by all means, go ahead. Please have some consideration for those of us whose hearing is functional though.

I’m not known for keeping my feelings under wraps and, after one of my several verbal rants on the subject, a ‘dress code policy’ was distributed around the office (not that I’m claiming any influence over its creation). Amusingly, there was a ‘no flip flops’ entry. Several of us chuckled at the indignation shown by more than a few apoplectic girls because, you know, they have it really tough. Being able to wear flowery dresses and flip flops is only fair because, after all, the men have to wear suits and ties which are much more comfortable in the height of summer. Anyway, staggeringly, after launching a protest the ‘ban’ was diluted to the point of worthlessness when it was decided that smart flip flops weren’t actually flip flops at all and so they were fine.

This is why democracy is a bad thing.