As the name of this blog suggests, I do indeed have a mental age of four. No this does not mean I giggle when someone says “willy”, spread jam on the walls and put Lego up my bottom, but it means I can take great joy in a lot of things that most people consider themselves “too grown up” to do.
Speaking of Lego, I’ll still happily get the Lego out the cupboard (or what remains after two brothers stole it, or knowing them, put it up their bottoms) and build a massive spaceship with an intergalactic laser gun on the roof that can destroy planets. Give me a bouncy castle and I’ll be as content as a cat with a ball of wool. However I do warn you, getting on the same bouncy castle as me WILL result in a gruesome trip to A&E, followed closely by death. And yes, at Christmas I nick the toys from the children and have more fun with them than they do; the six foot 2 adult holding two warships and having an epic battle, with compulsory ‘Millennium Falcon’ sound effects.
Last year, I was introduced to a green laser pen by a friend. Fun during the day, making a bright green spot on whatever you shone it on, especially on the back of someone’s head in a queue and all the people in the queue behind them look confused. However the real fun was at night, where not only was the dot brighter, but you can see the whole beam of light between the spot and the pen. After almost jazzing my pants in excitement, I found myself on Ebay and was soon the proud owner of a bright green laser pen. Don’t think these are just little toys either; these have a range of 2km. I had so much fun hiding at the top of a multi-story car park and shining it at the feet of drunken people standing outside a club, especially when two of the girls fell over in their attempt to follow the light. This has now been my companion many times, and I’m surprised that in the DVD of ‘Foo Fighters: Live at Wembley 2006” you can’t occasionally see a bright green laser show behind Dave Grohl’s head.
This childish behaviour was only made worse when I hit the age of 17 and the Government decided I was responsible enough to be in possession of a vehicle. What a spectacular mistake that was. I’ll openly admit I don’t hang about when on the road, speed limits are guidelines, and I see nothing wrong with doing ‘some miles per hour’ in a national speed limit when there’s no bends and no traffic. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a very safe driver, and I’m currently the proud owner of five (that’s right, FIVE) years no claims bonus. Yes I’m on my fourth car, but that’s because the other three committed suicide. Thankfully the Astra has not yet shuffled off the mortal coil, however judging by the sound of its engine lately, it’s at the ‘crying in the dark and listening to My Chemical Romance’ stage.
Driving is seen as a chore by many folk, but it shouldn’t be. You can have great fun driving, and be safe while doing so. Just know your cars limits, and only have fun on roads you know well. If I know I can easily go round a corner 20mph faster than someone else, I’ll do it, and go “wheeee” as I do so. Alternatively, get yourself a Vauxhall Astra SRI with its exhaust and spoiler, then enter a Tesco car park at 2am with your foglights on; I can guarantee that as you leave you’ll have some teenage berk with a Citroen Saxo go right up your chuff. Go to a main road, slow down enough for the berk to overtake, and immediately put your foot down and overtake the berk straight back. And then keep going. I can assure you, there is nothing more fun.
As for when I have my mother in the car with me, I’m such a cruel sod. Driving really carefully to lure her into a false sense of security then randomly not slow down for a corner at all. Or wait until the exact moment she begins to apply lipstick then swerve the car right and left. Then die of hysterics when I notice she now looks like Heath Ledgers ‘Joker’ from The Dark Knight.
Now before you all go “tut tut” at me, I can let you all know that I have got this behaviour from said mother, who I’ve witnessed several times stop to let pedestrians walk onto the zebra-crossing and then rev the engine to make them jump six feet into the air and continue their crossing in a jog. She has also written off a car while racing me; she denies this, and insists that the cause of her skidding into a ditch was some ice on the ground. Not her going round corners at speeds where I’d be grabbing onto the Jesus-handle frantically.
I can also lay some blame on my late Grandfather. For many years I have taken so much joy in being silent as the cat walks past, then loudly moving the newspaper I’m reading and crying with laugher as the poor animal jumps three feet into the air. I am informed by the mother than my Grandfather did exactly the same thing, and I’m going to close this blog entry on a sad note by saying I desperately wish he was still alive; between us we’d have caused the most fantastic mayhem.
