Emissions/Kilian Doyle: They have a special word for them in Spain. Domingueros. It's invariably forced out through clenched teeth with the thinly-veiled disgust we in Ireland normally reserve for politicians or senior members of the clergy. It's a term that, to Spaniards, embodies all that is wrong and unjust about the driving experience.
To the casual observer, the loathing with which it is spoken would lead one to the conclusion that all Spaniards are impatient maniacs behind the wheel. Ah, sure can they not stop being so hot-blooded and Latin and just take it easy? you ask. Well, you know the infamous "Will we ****!" quote from the Flood tribunal? The answer is somewhere along those lines.
Anyway, are we Irish any different? Let's test it. Before reading this translation aloud, think of all the miles you have spent crawling along at an unseemly 23 miles per hour as the car in front, stuffed full of rubbernecking grannies, blocks your passage. Think of your fury at hours spent behind some muppet who appears utterly oblivious to the fact that you have a life to lead and may actually need to get the two miles from A to B within a three-hour time limit.
Ready? (A word of warning, so you don't hurt anyone or yourself - just make sure there are no breakables within easy reach you continue reading.) Alright, here it comes then . . . Sunday drivers.
OK, sit down, take deep breaths, think open motorways, Tuesday afternoons, not a vehicular tortoise in sight. Any better? No? The thought is still with you, isn't it? Your heart-rate is up to 140, sweat is beading on your forehead, your palms are itching and your knuckles are whitening . . . all because the memory of that horror journey to Limerick stuck behind that Morris Minor for 46 miles is flooding back.
"Do they have to slow down to look at every house with an interesting hedge?" you screamed into the abyss of your anguish, cursing the fact that you haven't got a Howitzer strapped on to your bonnet.
I know it may seem undemocratic to foreign readers, but under Irish law, you're not allowed to fix a snowplough to the front of your car and ram them off the road, cackling as they explode in flames in the ditch. (I know, I know, there's no justice.)
I blame the church. The clowns emerge from churches all over the country on Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings, brimful of piety, driving as if their cars were being lifted by angels, god was their co-pilot and they were exempt from the rules of engagement the rest of us mortal road-users have to drive by.
After consultation with several people on the subject, I can now present several ideas. Possibly the most rational and merciful is to offer the casual motorist a weekend-only driving licence. A big red "W" would be stamped on the side of their vehicles and they would risk imprisonment if they ventured out on weekdays. One must have standards.
Or they could be forced to drive cars fitted with sensors which automatically speed them up to an acceptable 45 mph when outside agreed areas. Any driver putting on the brakes without good reason, other than to gawp mindlessly at some twee little gift shop, would be jailed. Without trial. Or chance of parole. Ever.
Then there's the ramming option. Damn them with their civilisation and their laws!!!
Anyway, I'm still of the opinion they should be allowed drive only around suburban car parks blindfolded while we all watch, placing bets on which one survives. But then, I'd be the first to admit that the last thing this country needs is for anyone to take anything I say seriously. I'm sure you'd agree.
kdoyle@irish-times.com