Car Drivers by Manufacturer

BMW

Right, let's do this. Key in, engine growls like a bloody lion waking up from a nap it didn't want to take. Yeah, baby, that’s the sound of power. None of this electric car "whirr-whirr, I care about the planet" nonsense. I care about one thing: being ahead of everyone else. If you're in front of me, that’s a personal attack. If you're behind me, stay there. Simple ecosystem, innit? Apex predator and prey. Guess which one I am. Spoiler: it ain’t the squirrel.

First gear. Clutch up. Biting point. Smooth as silk, sharper than your nan's gossip. Out of the driveway, and of course, there’s already some absolute plank doing 27 in a 30. WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DAVE?! This isn't a scenic tour of the Lake District, it's TUESDAY, and I've got places to be. The gap’s there — I’m taking it. Check the mirror? For what?! I am the danger, pal. Indicators? Never met 'em. Mystery is power. You want to guess where I’m going? Too bad, keep guessing. Stay alert. It’s a public service, really, keeping everyone’s reaction time sharp.

Onto the dual carriageway now. Finally. Two lanes of potential dominance. I drop a gear — oh, did you hear that? Of course you did, mate. That's the sound of authority. That’s the sound of status. I’ve seen you in your Skoda Fabia, Steve. I know you want what I have, but you can’t have it. Pathetic. Look at him, just sitting there in the middle lane like he’s paid council tax on it. Move. Over. NOW. Oh, you’re not moving? Fine. We’re doing this the hard way.

Check it. Check it. Left, right, straight through the gap like threading a needle made of lightning. Textbook precision. And the exhaust bark as I sail past? Oh, you heard that, didn't you, Steve? That’s the sound of me being better than you. Take a photo if you like, but you won’t catch me twice.

Alright, roundabout coming up. Who's this absolute donkey rolling up on the right? Oh, you think you’re getting out first? Mate, I invented the concept of merging. I don’t merge — I conquer. Gas down, slot in like butter on a hot crumpet, and we’re out of there. Everyone else can sit there giving each other polite "after you" waves. Not me. I’m already two postcodes away. Keep up.

Red light. Ah, the great equaliser. Fine, fine, I’ll wait. But I’m first. First in line like a lion at a watering hole. Look at them all behind me. Queueing. Waiting. Pathetic. You see my badge? Blue and white propeller of destiny, mate. We don’t wait for long.

Green light. See ya, losers. Full send. The back end wobbles just a bit, just enough to make me feel alive. Grip’s there though — tyres holding on like I owe them money. Every second I’m on this road, I’m making a statement. I am faster, louder, and better than you. I can feel the haters staring from their Nissan Qashqais. Eyes full of resentment, hands full of meal-deal sandwiches, lives full of regret. They hate me because they ain’t me.

School zone coming up. Alright, I’m not a monster. I slow it down, but I’m not doing 20. Who does 20? Nobody. It’s just "advice," like "don’t drink six pints before a wedding speech." I’ve done that too. It was fine. Still, I’ll do 28, maybe 30 if I’m feeling spicy. Cameras? Let them flash. Send me the letter. I’ll hang it on the fridge like a GCSE certificate. Cost of doing business, mate.

Back into the village. You can smell the mediocrity here. Little hatchbacks on driveways. A 2008 Vauxhall Corsa that’s probably seen more McDonald’s drive-thrus than it’s seen petrol stations. I bet the owner's one of those people who leaves his car idling to "warm it up." Pathetic. I’m home in 30 seconds and the only warming I do is the smug glow I get from knowing I dominated every inch of tarmac from start to finish.

Driveway. Clutch down, roll to a stop. Handbrake up, tap the dashboard. "Good work, soldier." We did it again. Another perfect day of reminding the world that I am faster than you.

See you tomorrow, chumps.

Audi

Alright, let's move it, ya clueless sacks of flesh. Green light, GREEN LIGHT — what’s so hard to understand?! Foot down, turbo purrin', and I’m off. Yes, I’m off. I am the main character, and every other sod on this road is an NPC programmed to get in my bloody way. God, look at this muppet in the Corsa. Bet they don’t even know what a dual-clutch transmission is. Pathetic. Indicator on? Absolutely not. I know where I’m going, and if you don’t, that’s a you problem, not a me problem.

Lane change. Precision. Calculated aggression. No, I don’t check mirrors — I don’t need to. I am the mirror. If I’m moving, they’ll move for me. Everyone sees the four rings bearing down on them like the eye of Sauron, and they part like the Red Sea. It’s a natural order of things. Survival instinct. Carpe diem. Move, you twat! Oh, you’re braking? Why? WHY ARE YOU BRAKING?! You see a little drizzle and suddenly it’s 20mph on a 40?! Just say you’re scared and go home. I’ve got places to be, deals to close, and people to impress with my completely unnecessary sport package.

Tunnel coming up. Yesss. Drop it into sport mode. Rev it. Let the world hear it. It’s not a car, it’s a statement. WAHHH-BAH-BAHHH-BAHHH! Sounds like a lion gargling broken glass. Pure power. Goosebumps. Bet the Fiesta driver behind me is absolutely seething with jealousy right now. Yeah, you hear that, Dave? That’s the sound of wealth, my friend. Enjoy your 17-inch alloys while I’m out here caressing the road with precision-engineered German glory.

Speed camera? Bollocks. Slam brakes. Casual. Not obvious. No, no, no, I wasn’t speeding, officer — I was just, y’know, testing the brakes. Safety first. Can’t ticket me for being too responsible, eh? Bloody scam artists, the lot of them. 30 in a 30. 30 in a 30. Feel like I’m crawling through treacle. It’s humiliating. My car's begging to be let off the leash, and I’m sat here like a toddler on a tricycle.

Roundabout. Ah, the ultimate test of dominance. Who's got the nerve? Who's got the guts to go first? Me. Always me. Eyes locked with the Yaris on the right. He’s hesitating. Rookie mistake. I’m gone. You snooze, you lose, son. Quick glance in the rear-view to bask in the glory of my win. He’s probably swearing under his breath, "Look at that Audi driver, thinks he owns the road." You’re damn right, I do. This road is mine. Every road is mine. They just don’t know it yet.

Motorway. Sweet, sweet freedom. Floor it. Middle lane. Overtake. Overtake again. What are all these people doing in my lane? Middle lane’s for the fast ones, mate, not for you and your 2006 Renault Megane with a hanging bumper. Get to the slow lane where you belong. 70mph? Pfft. Law says 70, but common sense says "as fast as I want as long as I see brake lights ahead." I am the flow of traffic. If I’m speeding, we’re all speeding. You’re welcome.

Oh, here comes another Audi. Look at him, trying to flex with the S-line grille. Nice try, pal. But I’m on 19-inch rims with the blacked-out trim package. No chrome. Chrome is for BMW drivers. He tries to keep up. Not today, champ. I’m a shadow, I’m a ghost, I’m gone before you even register it.

Phone buzzes. Business email. Who cares. They can wait. Hands-free call comes through. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way, should be there in 15.” I’m 25 minutes away but I’ll make it 15. Watch me. Watch. Me.

Another red light. I swear, every traffic light in this country is in on a plot to humiliate me. But I’m chill. I’m chill. Just me and my heated seats, cradling me like the womb of a goddess. Could fall asleep here if I wanted. But I don’t. Because I’m too focused. Eyes darting. Watching everything. Everyone. This is my arena.

Light’s green. They hesitate. MUPPETS! I’m off. Again. Always off. Always ahead. Always winning.

Tesla

"Alright, here we go, another bloody day on these godforsaken British roads. Christ, it’s 8:12 AM, and I’ve already seen three idiots in Audis cut people off like they’re the main character in a Michael Bay film. Absolute wankers. At least I’m in my spaceship of a Tesla, and not some clapped-out diesel monstrosity belching poison into the air like it's 1882."

“Right, mirrors, mirrors, side cameras… bloody hell, why’s that guy so close to my bumper? Oh, congratulations, mate, you’ve gained exactly half a car length by tailgating me. What a tactical genius you are. Did you train with Lewis Hamilton, or are you just a naturally gifted prat?”

"Smooth acceleration, though. God, I love this car. No gear changes, no noise, just instant torque. Feels like being fired out of a cannon made of money and bad decisions. The smugness is half the fuel, really. Oh look, a petrol station. Poor sods lining up like they’re rationing bread in wartime. What’s that, £1.80 a litre now? HAH! Couldn’t be me, losers. I’ll just plug in at home while I’m eating biscuits like a king."

“Here comes a roundabout. Oh no. Here we go. No one understands the rules of a roundabout, do they? Look at this guy — straight on, no indicator, just vibes. Bloody hero. The Highway Code must be an optional novella for some people. And now the guy in front of me’s too scared to move. Go. Go, you absolute turnip. The gap’s wide enough to fit a bus through. MOVE. AHHH!”

“Right, next turn’s mine. Indicating, not that anyone behind me cares, because these people would drive blindfolded if they could. Look at this lot — texting, eating a sandwich, and driving a death machine at 50 mph. Multi-tasking icons, every single one. I’m in a sci-fi supercar and still surrounded by 1999-era Nokia-level decision-making. Pathetic.”

“Oh look, regen braking kicks in. Nice. I’m basically charging my own car while driving. Feel like a bloody wizard. Unlimited power! The people in their Vauxhall Corsas don’t know I’m living in 2045 while they’re stuck in 2006, arguing with their CD player. Absolutely tragic.”

"Speed limit change up ahead. 40 to 30. I see it. I slow down like a rational, intelligent being with eyes and a brain. Meanwhile, some turbo-charged moron behind me’s flashing his lights like I just stole his nan's pension. Oh, you’re upset? I’m following the LAW, you brain-dead clown. Flash all you want, mate, you’ll still be late for work because you made life choices that put you 10 cars behind me at the next junction.”

“Speaking of junctions, here’s another clown crawling out like he’s emerging from Narnia without checking the traffic. No, no, mate, don’t mind me. I’m only in a vehicle that weighs two tonnes and moves like a thunderbolt. You go ahead with your 15-mph merge like it’s your world and I’m just living in it. I hope you feel special.”

"God, I need a coffee. Bet I could order one from the bloody car if I set it up. Tesla could probably beam one into my cupholder via satellite if I paid Elon another £10 a month for Premium Mug Placement or something. Bet it’s coming next update. Full self-driving my arse. It’s more like ‘Full Self-Suggestions and Prayers’ at this point. I’ll trust it when it can handle a Tesco car park at 5 PM on a Saturday.”

“Here we go, traffic. Beautiful, British, soul-destroying traffic. Why is it that every time I’m in a rush, the entire road network decides to have a collective existential crisis? I’m sitting here like a lemon while Karen in the Nissan Qashqai just drifts into my lane with the grace of a drunk toddler on roller skates. Nope, NOPE, don’t you dare, Karen. I’ve got cameras on every side of this car, and I’ll report you faster than you can say ‘I didn’t see you there.’”

"Can’t even play music right now because my Spotify account’s somehow not synced to the car again. Absolute tech wizardry, but it can’t remember my playlist from Tuesday. Thanks, Elon. I bet I could stream a chess game on Mars, but heaven forbid I get my 'Driving Bangers' playlist to show up properly. Love the future, hate the admin.”

“Oh, charging station up ahead. Should I? Nah, I’ve got 40% battery. Enough to get to work, back, and probably run a small nightclub for a week. EV anxiety’s for people who don’t plan ahead. I’m built different. I read the numbers. I am the numbers.”

"Alright, final stretch. Dual carriageway. Foot down. WOOOOOO! Bloody HELL, that torque never gets old. Zero to ‘Oh God I’m going too fast’ in under 3 seconds. It’s like getting kicked by Zeus. Instant regret, instant euphoria. Look at the Ford Fiesta two lanes over — trying to race me. As if. Mate, your car sounds like a cat sneezing into a bin. Sit down, you absolute gremlin.”

“Here we are, pulling into the car park. Sensors going berserk like I’m about to smash into Buckingham Palace, but I’m literally 6 feet from anything. Relax, HAL 9000. I’m not an idiot. I’m a Tesla driver. We don’t hit stuff. We float gracefully into parking bays like divine beings descending from the heavens."

“Okay, parked. Perfectly aligned, of course, because I’m not a psychopath. Time to walk in and pretend I’m a normal human being who doesn’t spend every waking moment critiquing other people’s driving. Deep breath, you magnificent legend. Another day, another drive. I love this car, but I hate every single person on the road with me. Flawless logic.”

Land Rover

Right, here we go. Another bloody morning. Rain again, of course it’s raining — what else would it be? Sun? In Britain? Don’t make me laugh. Windshield’s fogging up already. Brilliant. Love that. Just what I wanted. Crack on, then. Fire up the beast. Rumble-rumble-ROAR — oh, that’s the sound of raw bloody power, mate. Diesel-fuelled dominance right there. You don’t drive a Land Rover. You command it. You conquer with it. It’s not just a car, it’s a battle cry on four wheels.

Right, mirrors. Wing mirrors full of rain streaks, rear-view mirror foggy as hell — can’t see a damn thing. Typical. Wipers on. Swish, swash, swish, swash. Sounds like a bored old man sweeping a floor. Should've replaced them last month, but nah, still "good enough," aren’t they? Wrong. They're crap. Everything's crap. Everything except this machine.

Road looks like a river today. Flooded again. Classic. Who designs British drainage systems, anyway? A bunch of toddlers with plastic shovels? Look at that Fiesta up there — poor sod’s trying to tiptoe through it like he’s crossing a minefield. Pathetic. Puddle’s barely ankle-deep, but oh no, little Timmy in his 1.2L hamster cage doesn’t wanna get his alloys wet. Tragic. MEANWHILE, I’m here in the Land Rover, top of the bloody food chain, about to turn that puddle into a full-on tsunami. Go on, Fiesta boy, stay there. Watch. Boom! Through the water like Poseidon himself. Look at it spray — HAH! Look at that! Should've worn your raincoat, mate. Ain’t nobody safe from my wake.

Country lane next. Single track, hedges up both sides, no room to breathe, and of course, oh look, here comes some absolute donkey in a BMW. Right. Here we go. Look at him, barrelling down like he owns the joint. Well guess what, pal? I’m in a Land Rover. I don't move for you. You move for me. You think I’m reversing half a mile up this hedge-maze just because your pretty-boy coupe can’t handle a bit of grass? Get stuffed. Not happening. I’ll sit here all day. I’ve got a thermos.

He’s flashing his lights now. Ohh, scary! Flashy, flashy. Like that’s gonna make me reverse. Look at him, waving his arms like he’s directing traffic at Heathrow. Idiot. Alright, mate, if you think I’m backing up, you’ve got another thing coming. This is my lane now. I’ve claimed it. It’s sovereign territory. I’ll annex it like it’s 1066 all over again. Go on, reverse. I’ll wait. Honk all you like, you absolute turnip.

There it is. There it is. Little twitch of the wheels. He’s giving up. Reverse lights on. Ohh, that’s a sweet feeling. It’s a power you don’t understand until you’ve driven one of these. Watch him wiggle his way backwards. Probably scuffing his alloys on the hedges. Bet his sat-nav’s screaming, "recalculating, recalculating." Meanwhile, I sit here, the king of the road, unmoving, unbothered, drinking my tea like a monarch on a throne. Yeah, back up, sunshine. Back it up. This is what happens when you challenge royalty.

Alright, off we go. Another field ahead — proper churned up from last night's rain. Oh, look at that muck. Beautiful. You see that mud and you think, "Oh no, not today." But I see it and I smile. Proper Land Rover playground, that is. The traction control light’s about to go wild. Stick it in low gear. Crawl, crawl, crawl — then WHAM. Grip kicks in, all four wheels biting down into the earth like a lion on its prey. Mud flying everywhere. Splattering up the sides, proper war paint, that. Fiesta drivers would cry if they saw this. Me? I’m laughing. Absolutely laughing. This is freedom. This is why you drive a Land Rover.

Oh, look at that. Stuck sheep. You’re joking. Look at this absolute idiot, standing in the middle of the road like he’s got tenure. Come on, fluffy. Move it. Nope, just staring at me like I owe him rent. I could honk, but it’s pointless. He’s seen things. He’s lived through storms. I’m not scaring him. Fine. Slow crawl. Side-eye from the sheep. He thinks he’s a tough guy. Whatever, mate. I could push you over with one finger. But I’m feeling generous today. Out the way, please.

Finally, back on tarmac. God, it’s so boring on the road. Flat. Predictable. No challenge. I see Range Rover drivers prancing about in towns, thinking they’re tough. Nah. THIS is tough. This is Land Rover life. No car wash, no polish, just mud-caked sides and pure capability. The engine’s humming like a beast that just ate its prey and is now basking in the glory. It’s earned this cruise. I’ve earned it too. Every smear of dirt is a victory medal. Every dent tells a story.

Oh, here comes a cyclist. Jesus, here we go. Look at him, all Lycra’d up like he’s training for the Tour de France. Yeah, I see you, mate. In the middle of the road like you’ve paid for it. He’s swerving to avoid potholes, like he’s dancing ballet. Meanwhile, I am the pothole destroyer. I crush them beneath me. No swerving. No dodging. Land Rover doesn’t care if it’s tarmac, gravel, or the surface of Mars. Just rolls on through. Move, cyclist, MOVE. I could pass you without touching the sides, but no, you want to play captain roadblock today, huh? Fine. I’ll wait. I’ll breathe. Barely. Deep breath, pal. Be the bigger man.

And he waves. Oh, NOW he waves. Like that’s gonna fix it. I don’t need your wave. I need you to pull over. Proper king-of-the-road energy from him, but little does he know, I’m the emperor. Wipe the smug off your face, Tour de Tescos. I’m not impressed.

Finally, he’s gone. Time to open up the taps a bit. Feel that surge. That’s 2.2 tons of British muscle thundering down the road. People see me coming and they pull over like villagers seeing a Viking longboat. And they should, because I am the storm.

Home stretch now. Same old lane, same old potholes, same old everything. Pull up to the house, mud dripping off the sides like it's just returned from a battle. Oh, the missus will love that. Bet she’ll say, “You’re not tracking that in here!” But guess what? I will. Boots on. Mud on. It’s the Land Rover way, love. It’s not just a drive. It’s a bloody lifestyle.

Engine off. Silence. Feels weird after all that. Still hear the hum of it in my bones, though. Might stay here a minute longer. Just me and the mud. It’s good out here. Quiet. Proper peace. Not like in town. Not like in that BMW driver’s mind, that’s for sure.

I’ll clean it tomorrow. Maybe. Probably not. Looks better like this, anyway. Rugged. Mean. Proper Land Rover.

Volkswagen

Right. Here we fucking go. Engine on — good ol’ German engineering. Solid as a brick shithouse. Not like that rattly Peugeot I had before. Clutch down, into first, handbrake off — oh, for fuck's sake, Brenda, MOVE! How are you this slow at a roundabout? It's a GAP, not a fucking final exam. Jesus wept. Right, slip through here. Yes, I'm indicating, you blind muppet. Oh, and now you're flashing your lights at me like I'm the problem? Sod off, mate. Honestly, swear down, the IQ of the average road user is about 12.

Alright, second gear, smooth as silk — oof, speed bump. Cheers for that, council. Got money for speed bumps but not to fill in that crater on the A456 that nearly swallowed my fucking front axle last week. Classic. Right, eyes on the road, not that billboard. "New Chicken Zinger Meal" — oh, that does look good though. No, focus. You just ate. Stop it. Stay strong. You're not a labrador.

Bloody cyclist up ahead. Here we go. No helmet. Lycra suit. Thinks he's in the Tour de France but pedalling like he's got bricks for legs. Right, just wait... wait... wait... YES, now's the gap! Let’s gooo! Past him. Booom! Turbo kicks in. Feel that? Yeah, that’s 150 horses doing the Lord’s work. Feels good, feels righteous. Bet that cyclist’s tasting exhaust fumes for lunch now.

Radio on. Absolute shambles of a playlist. Who’s picking these songs? Sounds like the inside of a TikTok compilation. Right, skip, skip, skip — ah, a classic. Bit of Fleetwood Mac, go on then. Don’t stop... thinkin’ about tomorrow... Oh wait, bus stop. Brake. BRAKE! Christ on a bike, nearly ran into the back of Mr. "Let's Brake For No Reason" over here. Love that. Middle of the road, nowhere near a zebra crossing, but let me just stop like I’ve seen the ghost of Christmas past. People like him are the reason I’ve got trust issues.

Oh brilliant, here comes the rain. And there it is — every single driver ahead of me has suddenly forgotten how water works. It’s not acid, Dave, you don’t need to drive at 4 mph. And, oh look, they’re panicking on the motorway now too. What’s that? A drizzle? Better slam on the brakes like there’s an asteroid incoming. Absolute donuts. Where’s my wipers? Click. Swish, swish, swish. God, I love that sound. ASMR for the angry, that is.

Traffic lights. Red, obviously, because the universe hates me. Just once, just ONCE, I’d like to sail through on green like Moses parting the sea. But no. Red it is. Sat here like a lemon while everyone else does the same dead-eyed stare into the middle distance. The woman in the Vauxhall next to me is singing at full volume with her window down. Horrifying pitch. Should I stare at her till she notices? Nah, let her have her moment. We all need a win sometimes.

Green light, go go go — OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, did you just STALL? In the middle of a junction?! How are you even legally allowed to operate heavy machinery?! My nan could do better and she’s been dead six years. Unbelievable. Move it, princess, some of us have places to be.

Finally, open road. Fourth gear. Windows down. Sweet, sweet air. Crisp. Smells like... rain and petrol. God, I love that smell. And there’s home. Reverse park? Oh, you know I’m about to nail this on the first try. Camera on, mirrors checked, line it up — BAM. Perfection. German precision meets British stubbornness. Done.

Keys out. Silence. Time to get inside and pretend I’m calm, rational, and normal.

Mini

Ah, here we bloody go. Key in, engine purrs like a smug little cat that knows it’s better than everyone else on the road. Oh, listen to that. Beautiful. Not a roar, nah, that’s for those bellends in their obnoxious V8s compensating for a lack of personality. This? This is class. Compact, clever, and just a bit cocky — just like me.

Right, mirrors. Check. Seatbelt. Check. Middle finger ready to deploy at a moment's notice? Double check, mate. Pulling out now, no thanks to that absolute tool in the Range Rover who clearly thinks indicators are an optional extra. “It’s not a fucking guessing game, pal!” Honestly, the size of that thing. Overcompensating much? You could fit a whole circus in that monstrosity, including the elephants.

Cruising now, lovely little bit of B-road action. Twisty-turny, just how I like it. This is where the Mini shines, baby. While the rest of these road-hogs are struggling to swing their bloated SUVs round a gentle bend, I’m here darting through like a caffeinated squirrel. Zing-zing-zing, round the corners I go. If I had a soundtrack, it’d be the James Bond theme on repeat. "Duh-duh-duh-duh-duhhh... da-da-da!" Oh yeah, I am the danger. Walter White had nothing on this.

Look at this moron ahead of me. “Pick a speed, you indecisive donkey!” 40… 50… 42? Who does 42mph on a 60 road? I’m stuck behind the human embodiment of buffering. Do I overtake? Overtake on a bend? Hmmm, tempting fate, aren't we? No, no, be patient. I’m better than that. I’m sophisticated. I drive a Mini, after all, not some crumbling Fiat Punto held together by tape and tears. I’ve got taste.

Ah, but wait. Clear stretch of road. No cars coming. I’m going for it. Foot down. “SEE YA, YOU PACELESS PRAT!” Oh, that’s the good stuff. Smooth, clean, efficient. Straight past like they were standing still. Probably still processing what just happened. They’ll tell their grandkids about me one day. "One time, a blur of red and white passed me on the A39... never saw it coming." Legend status achieved.

Roundabout approaching. Right, watch this now. Everyone here drives like they’ve never seen one before. “Give way to the right, Dave, it’s not a cryptic riddle!” Every time. Every. Bloody. Time. It's a circle, not a Sudoku puzzle, just pick your gap and go. I live for this moment. Eyes scanning, calculating, watching for my chance to glide in like a swan on steroids. Boom — I’m in. No hesitation, no fear. Natural predator instincts, mate. I was built for this.

Red light. Oh, for f***'s sake. Here comes Mister Audi A3 on my right, revving like he’s just learned how pedals work. Alright, mate, we get it, you’ve got an engine. I could rev too, but I’ve got dignity. We all know what’s coming. Light turns green, and off he roars, making as much noise as possible, only to hit the next red light 20 feet later. “Yeah, yeah, you really showed me, champ.” Honestly, I hope he enjoys his little victory lap to nowhere. Meanwhile, I’ll glide up smooth and smug, like a cat that’s just knocked a vase off the counter and strutted away without a care in the world.

Almost home now. Time for a cheeky parallel park. Tight spot, but if anyone can do it, it’s me. Three-point-turn? Pfft, try one-point precision, mate. In I go. Tweak the wheel, feather the brake. Just like threading a needle, only I’m doing it with a car. Perfection. I step out and have a little look at my handiwork. Straight as an arrow. Michelangelo had his Sistine Chapel, and I have this parking job.

Lock it up, walk away, but not before one last glance over my shoulder. Look at it. Look at her. My Mini. My pride, my joy, my rolling middle finger to every bloated 4x4 in this overpriced postcode. I walk away, and I know for a fact every curtain-twitcher on the street just saw a master at work.

They should be grateful I graced their road with my presence.