PARKING IS A FOUR LETTERED RANT…

9 Jan

 

A BASTARD

 

 I’ve been circling the city for the past half an hour, and surprise surprise there’s nowhere to bloody park. One would have thunked with all the cash spent and revenue collected, the myriad pencil- pushing- administrator types blessed with pension enhanced job-for-life programs, would have resolved the issue already.

 Everywhere there are road stenciled directions – multi colored petroglyphs leading to nowhere in particular. A plethora of hatched and solid highway instruction daubed over tarmac by some guerilla graffiti artist wannabe – the exorbitant cost of which, the reason for governmental impecuniosity. Budgetary penury resulting in a lack of multi-story pissoirs in which to park vehicles, coupled with a rise in the number of unemployed town planners. The last few miserly coppers of public money spent on inner city beautification and cycling lanes for the disabled.

In all probability the reason they’re disabled in the first place is because they were mown down by drivers looking for bleeding parking spots!

 

 The organizers of the child hurling trebuchet event had thought of everything.

 

In this modern age of sat-nav-dash-mounted-black-boxed-femme-friendly-intonation some genius should have developed chipped parking.

Here’s how it works:

Car parking area full- chip transmits red circle to plastic Portuguese assistant!

Car parking area  empty- chip transmits green circle to plastic Portuguese assistant!

 

Magellan’s early attempts at creating the MAP-QUEST program were crap

 

This isn’t rocket science; although considering the infrastructure required it probably is! When one calculates the vast sums required for satellite networked convenience, the cost of such a simple solution to resolve the ire of would be parkers, is staggering.

But to use this twenty first century analogy for my own benefit; although we live in a space-age society we do not enjoy the benefits of a parking spaced society.

One would think that the monthly payments bled by consumers to insure four wheeled frustration and modern mobility, would at least garner the average commuter a little vehicular respect. Given the revenue automobiles generate for governmental largesse it would seem prudent to offer them inner city rights.

Taking into account the value of added tax and the cars place in modern economies, they’re a veritable cash cow. The Hindus are much more reverent to their beasts of burden and allow them to wonder and graze at will.  Not so our local governments.

There’s no budget for car parking, they’re cutting back on bus services and British Rail isn’t what it was. I sense an apocalyptic quandary here. Unable to patronize towns, a non-car-parking public will be prevented from creating revenue streams through sundry purchases, thereby denying shop keepers the necessary funds to pay prime-site leases, resulting in closure.

 Quod erat demonstrandum an end to city life, and the possibility of human extinction.  Faced with an inability to park, the demise of public transportation, and decline in personal wealth, the populous will no longer frequent the Super Marché of modern living and mass starvation will ensue. Whole populations centers will die off, resurgence in cave-living will emerge and the dark ages will once again darken our door steps. All because some bean-counting-jobs-worth wouldn’t  fund a few extra car parking spaces.

The British contestants for the BIGGEST LOSER SHOW felt they had been misrepresented by their agent. 

 

                What really gets my goat, takes it behind the bike shed and abuses it in Biblical fashion, are the handicap spaces, where the only right of habitation required is a prominently displayed blue window–licked sticker. How many times have we witnessed the fraud perpetuated?  Semi–ambulant individuals pretending to struggle with wheel chairs, whilst feigning amputation and adopting educationally challenged attitudes. The worst offenders are the able bodied, but slightly disturbed; probably caused by the chronic parking situation and therefore no more mentally deranged than anybody else.

A quick dribble on the t- shirt, a shifty cross eyed gaze, a supposed conversation with an inanimate object, a spontaneous moment of pyromania. It’s hard to tell who are the afflicted, versus who this year’s Oscar nominees are.

 

 Long John finally perfected his scam of sticking his foot up his arse in order to qualify for disability

 

I suspect through my mastery of television acquired detective expertise that the majority of them are frauds – there’s nothing wrong with them at all – their just putting it on so they can get a bloody parking spot. Well if there is anyone who is certifiable right now it’s me. In fact it would be safe to say I’m exceptionally miffed and about to blow a gasket. I can feel the steam pressure building behind my eyes, effluent oozing from my nostrils – this is not going to end well.

                Finally I find some incompetent trying to reverse out of a parking space fit for a fully supported aircraft carrier group. A classic twenty seven point turn executed on a football field of dimes. Possibly engaged in mime, in his disused theater of mind, the useless bugger can barely see over the steering wheel and probably needs a boost to reach the pedals. Of course he smiles and waves, and I wish him nothing but death, disease and terminal boils. I sometimes wonder if it’s just me? Maybe I’m the one with the problem – that I’m the impatient bastard. But of course that would be ridiculous. The thought train blows its whistle, leaves the station and I comprehend in crystal clarity that it’s all the other wankers.

Now I just have to pay and display, find exact change, and deposit it in a machine which may or may not give me a ticket. A stained silver-steeled box where some degenerate has probably sealed the ticket hole with chewing gum, or stuffed something inedible and disgusting into the coin slot. It’s a little like Russian roulette – you spins the wheel and you takes your chances. My coin drops and the machine begins to chatter.

 

Before finding fame on the cooking channel Mr. Zimmern had bizarely worked at several other camps

 

Out of the corner of my eye I spy the vanguard of neo-Nazi fascism, just waiting for me to walk away without paying through the nose, so that he can slap a ticket on my windscreen, or even better have it towed. Minimum wage despotism at the hands of some runt (first letter interchangeable…) in a traffic warden’s uniform. A huge influx of quasi-fascists employed at small expense to pillage and piss everybody else off. The machine chatters and finally spews out the necessary documentation. I hold the ticket high in the air and watch disappointment slide across his Teutonic visage; the elation of Spartan victory – taking everything but giving nothing to a vanquished foe. Like a gas chamber operative denied his chance to pull the lever he scurries off to find easier prey.

Sticker stuck, parked and ticketed I amble away to complete the task that will take mere minutes to accomplish but which has taken hours to achieve. Nothing is easy, nothing simple, the years lost through car parking misadventure gone forever.

Bollocks!

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