Boy racer. Two very simple words. They're individually, innocuous enough. But put them together and they send you into a shudder of loathing, don't they?
Everyone hates them - all other motorists, gardai, cyclists, bikers, pedestrians, pets, traffic wardens, anyone with a shred of civic duty . . . the list goes on.
In fact, they're so bloody competitive and obsessed with one-upmanship they even hate one another. Must be a lonely experience sitting there in your tinted-windowed Micra knowing that everyone thinks you are a tool.
Every time I see a boy racer shredding his tyres and gearbox at a lights, I get an overwhelming urge for it to all go horribly wrong and for him to lose control and slam into an unattended lorry that is packed full of nails and dynamite.
Every time one pulls up in my rear-view mirror, so close behind me I can see the fake gold plating peeling off his signet ring and the pus oozing from his acne, I want to slam on my brakes and then sue him for every penny he, his extended family and all their friends and neighbours will ever earn.
Every time I see a poxy little rustbucket of a hatchback with those silly see-through clear plastic lights and a rear wing that wouldn't look out of place on a Boeing 737, I want to take a blowtorch and pliers to it.
Every time one overtakes me - and the four cars in front of me - on the brow of a hill, I want there to be an entire Panzer division coming the other direction, just enough out of sight of the little bumfluffed toe-rag behind the wheel so that he won't have the slightest chance of avoiding being pulverised.
Every time I see an approaching undercar neon light I want it to short out and turn the whole stupid machine it's attached to into a giant battery, frying the tosser inside.
Every time I see some clown, fag in mouth, craning his neck to peer over the steering wheel of his jalopy because he's lowered the seats to within a quarter of a millimetre from the floor, I want to reach in and strangle him with his rally-driver's seatbelt.
I hate them. But I bet I don't hate them as much as the fine people of the Nine Stones area of Mount Leinster. These unfortunate folk have seen their idyllic rural homeland turned into an illegal racetrack by gangs of up to 150 boy racers at a time. Or the inhabitants of Donegal, where gardai are so fed up of gobshites tearing around the county they been forced to resort to confiscating cars as a deterrent.
I have a different solution.
Close off the Glen of Imaal for a weekend. Invite every boy racer in the country along to the country's biggest ever road race. Hype it up to bejaysus. Offer them free stickers, furry dice, signet rings, alloy wheels, DVDs of The Fast and the Furious, any old tat that will lure them in.
Promise the winner will get a brand new Subaru Impreza and an evening with Jordan. They'll come in their thousands.
Here's the good bit. Forget to tell our speedfreak chums that same weekend is the one the Army Rangers are allowed to try out their new rocket-propelled grenades on moving targets. In the Glen of Imaal. And also forget to tell them that every road out is blocked. If they try to escape - shoot them.
Hold the race. But first sabotage every set of brakes so they all go flying off the road like Scalectrix cars controlled by ADD kids.
And if, by some bizarre stroke of bad luck, one survives the artillery, the crashes and the general mayhem that ensues, arrest him for dangerous driving. After forcing him to watch his car being gently dismantled by a barrage of tank shells, inform him capital punishment has just been reintroduced specifically for the crime of dangerous driving. If he complains, shoot him anyway.
Harsh? Perhaps. But you know it makes sense.
