The young man who cannot drive is, for the most part, a Dublin phenomenon. He may have moved out of the family home before any of his elders could instruct him in the ways of motoring, and has probably lived most of his adult life in the city, perhaps renting accommodation within the canals or just outside. In this central location, he might have developed the habit of cycling if he spent time as a student, and probably travelled or bummed around a bit in his early 20s, when car purchase came far down his list of priorities. While the average rural dweller masters driving in their teens, this city slicker, with every amenity a short distance away, could afford to put a tiresome learning experience on the long finger.
He now finds himself - late-20s, early-30s - still trundling around on the old bone-shaker, marching merrily from artisan dwelling to city centre, wasting time standing at bus-stops, or, with a bit of spare cash in his pocket, raising a hand in vain at unstoppable taxis. For an educated, travelled, urban male in the Ireland of today, an inability to drive is a source of unfathomable shame. I know this as one whose means of transport - a rickety black bicycle with a vandalised white plastic basket on the handlebars - is the antithesis of a status symbol in this Hectic Tiger economy.
As the cars on our roads become ever flashier, not being able to drive is an ever-greater handicap. The anti-car, pro-environment arguments I once called upon in my defence no longer wash with my peers, who are slowly shifting their political positions ever rightwards, and I realise myself that I should be able to perform this task which, after all, has been learned by some of the stupidest people in the world.
I decided to stop whingeing and do something about it. Although eating, drinking, working and sleeping already take up all my time, I had a few lessons last year, in which I took to driving like Eddie Irvine might take to herb gardening. At the end of my sixth lesson, the instructor said that, had he not had control of the brakes during the previous hour, we would both be dead. I haven't gone back.
For the man who is too lazy/ embarrassed/principled to learn to drive, there is another way of getting from A to B: find yourself a chauffeur. These run to about £20 an hour, including car and hat, but you can avoid paying for a driver simply by becoming a government minister, taoiseach, or president of Ireland.
Alternatively, you could adopt the method of becoming romantically involved with your chauffeur before asking her to take up driving duties. I have such an arrangement myself, though I must admit it's not ideal. At this stage, I've run to moving in with the chauffeur and even making vague rumblings of marriage to her, just to ensure the odd lift into town on rainy mornings or trip to the builders' providers at the weekend. I've even invested in half a car. And still, the professionalism that £20 an hour will buy you just isn't there.
But for Homo Non-conducto, it seems like the most common solution. Everywhere I go, I see young men being ferried around by their wives or girlfriends. While traditionally, men would have countered this relegation to passenger-seat status with some abusive criticism of the woman's driving, the nearest He Who Cannot Drive comes to a position of influence is choosing the radio station. Unfamiliarity with exhaust pipes, carburettors and the rules of the road render him dumb.
While it's nice to be in charge of the cubby hole, air circulator, and one window, it doesn't compare very well with steering wheel, accelerator, brakes, and whatever that other pedal is. This second-citizen status becomes particularly painful during a visit to the filling station. Picture the scene.
We pull up. "Could you pop out and fill it up," the chauffeur asks sweetly. Certainly darling, I reply, as the entire forecourt comes to a standstill to watch the ensuing piece of theatre of the absurd. The theme is sexual politics. Scene One. A petrol station. Saturday afternoon. Queues of cars stretch as far as the eye can see. From the passenger seat of one springs The Fool. He marches to the rear of the car, stares at the petrol cap for two minutes, then has a moment of realisation, goes red, and runs round to the driver's window. A hand emerges, holding a bunch of keys. The Fool selects a long, black, car-type key and after a few minutes of fumbling, then banging, gets the petrol cap open.
After a quick consultation at the driver's window, and a scowl from the man in a big car in the queue behind, he examines each of the petrol pumps. "It's behind you," yell the audience. He lifts a pump marked "Unleaded", pops the nozzle into the tank, and pulls the lever, with obvious relief.
On a huge dial, numbers fly by. It quickly hits £7.95.
Fool (perspiring): How much do we want?
It hits £9.36. At £35.78 he works out how to release the lever. He retreats to the car. Curtain. End of Act One. Applause from the audience. "Bravo," they say. "Hilarious." "What a complete Fool."
The repairs garage is worse. We pull up. "I think it needs oil," says the chauffeur, getting out and approaching the shop. She emerges with two measures of oil - one litre in a can and another 10 litres enveloping an accompanying mechanic, who has agreed to play What's This Week's Mystery Sound Coming From The Bonnet? This is a game between driver and mechanic which I've never been told the rules of, but it generally consists of the driver explaining lucidly and succinctly what the problem is, the mechanic not listening and throwing lascivious glances at the chauffeur and contemptuous ones at me for not being the chief spokesperson. The game is over when the mechanic says "Sounds like she's boll**ed. A drop of oil might do the job."
The way our car sounds these days, these visits will be an increasingly common occurrence in the months to come, until, as a comfortably pre-1992 vehicle, it comes up for the National Car Test next year. I'm afraid it's going to fail, no matter how hard it studies between now and then. It just doesn't have the ability. In fact, the head mechanic says it's behaving so badly that it's holding up all the other cars in the car-park as well. (If this sounds a bit harsh, I write it in the vain hope that, when the inevitable failure occurs, I can claim the outcome was unfairly influenced by prejudicial media coverage and try to have the verdict overturned.) Honestly, that half a car was the worst £350 I ever spent.
Louise East is on leave
