To the driver of the silver BMW 320d at the top of Coldham’s Lane – I’m sorry. I’m sorry you can’t distinguish between my safety margin and your opportunity to barge out of a side road. It’s dark, the roads are a little slippery and my tyres don’t work quite as well in weather like this so I like to give myself a little more braking distance. You quite obviously don’t. I’m so very sorry the sound of my horn blaring loud and long forced you to look in your rear view mirror, possibly for the first time this year.
I’m sorry for your wife. Your carelessness as a driver suggests to me a certain lack of attention in other aspects of your life. Your poor wife, though. Your poor, poor wife. She must be torn between frustration at the perfunctory nature of your sexual performance and relief that at least it is soon over and she can go and finish herself off fantasising about Benedict Cumberbatch.
I’m sorry for your colleagues. You’re wearing a collar and tie on a Saturday afternoon so you must be at work. That you failed to take responsibility for your stupid actions while driving forces me to believe that you fail to take responsibility for anything that you do or fail to do. I’m sorry they have to pick up the pieces when your lack of foresight and judgement becomes obvious just so that they don’t look like fools too.
I’m sorry you’re not as great a success as you want. That car, it’s only a 320d. It’s not this year’s model. Your boss has a 5-Series, doesn’t he? And there wasn’t the budget to get you a new car this year. If only you’d made your targets. Still, you’ll miss it when redundancy comes next year.
Most of all, I’m sorry, heart-sick and sorry that your bell-endery has forced me to sit and think about you and your stupid face and your pathetic tie and your inability to wait until I and the car behind had passed that junction. If you’d waited ten seconds I wouldn’t have wasted three hours.
You, sir, are a twat and you don’t deserve a driving licence.