Pink? Oh dear... (a short rant)

[Neeek]

Yes, it's time for another short rant. Last time it was spinners. Having only just recovered from that particular episode (and the therapy I so desperately needed after witnessing their hypnotic spinningness), I have found a new axe to grind.

Ordinarily, I don't pay anything much attention if I see something only once… unless of course it’s the Lincoln Mark IV coupe that I saw trundling down Newmarket Road a couple of weeks back. It had me grinning like an idiot, pointing, dribbling (I think) and almost kerbing the nearside wheel in my wife's car. Breasts have a similar effect on my driving.

This morning on the drive to work, I passed a car parked on the side of the road. Nothing terribly unusual in that, I hear you say. But this car was special; at least it *has* to be for someone. It was a Mazda 121 “bubble” and it was white. But that wasn't what made it special. It had pink seat covers, something pink hanging from the rear view mirror and pink wheel trims. There may be nothing wrong with doing some mild modifications to your car, but please… pink? Surely the driver of said vehicle was a teenage girl who left no clues as to her favourite colour and clearly has no taste at all. And that's just about excusable, in my book.

But that car on its own didn't really catch my attention. I noted it, made up my own mind about it and its owner, and then carried on driving to work. Not 3 minutes down the road, I spy an old Camry ahead. It is also white, and it too has been to the My Little Pony School of Krazy Kustomisation. I am frankly appalled that there exists another car so heinously "pinked". Pink seat covers, pink fluffy toys on the parcel shelf and pink rubbing strips down the side of it… quite who would actually want to rub up against a car like that, I cannot fathom.

My reaction was perhaps a little restrained, as I only emitted a sort of snorting sound; you know, the one that precludes some light sniggering and a few shakes of the head. But then I happened to note the driver of the car. Said driver was not a teenage girl, chewing bubblegum and with hula-hoops dangling from her ears. No, he was… well, a he.

Please, let there have been some misunderstanding here. This guy couldn't POSSIBLY be the owner of this car – not in a million years. He is clearly taking the car to the wreckers to be crushed into a small cube of metal under the cover of dawn (silly boy – night would've been better) and will be replacing his "girlfriend's" car with something more normal, like a metallic silver Toyota Echo.

Sadly, I suspect not. I suspect this gentleman is actually deranged and truly believes that his "worked" 1989 Camry is the height of brilliance. And so, I shake my head, and laugh at him and his pathetic conveyance.

I would like to propose a new requirement – mandatory back-window stickers in all cars with ANY pinkness that state "Yes, I know it looks gay, but it’s my daughter’s car, OK?". Failure to display these stickers in such cars will result in a generous donation to the Fondmetal Mag Wheel Replacement Programme, because I'm getting sick and tired of running into the bloody kerb…