Crunch Time

I'm an actor, and was on my way to the theatre again today. As posted yesterday this involved a one hour fifteen minute drive. All was going well. The plan was, to arrive three hours before the show so we could rehearse and make any last minute changes before curtain up. I was performing a play which we have taken to secondary schools throughout the area since October 2009, although due to recasting, I only joined in March this year. The performance today was a showcase of all the major theatre companies in the area. An opportunity to network, and also an opportunity for promoters to come and see the shows, which involved some new writing, and developed work, with the view to possibly booking the show/s for their venues or employing actors, commissioning writers etc. A really excellent initiative, and like I said, a great opportunity.

Everything was going great, I was running twenty minutes late, but due to the time we had before the show actually started this wasn't a problem.

As I travelled down the motorway with the radio blaring, all was good.

Suddenly an object loomed in the distance in the right hand carriageway (for us British, the fast lane), however more to the point, MY lane.

As I got closer, travelling at around 82mph, it was suddenly upon me, and what was a small object in the distance, became larger, and larger, until suddenly I was upon it.

It was a huge lump of metal, strewn across the carriageway.

CRUNCH!

That horrible sound of metal clattering into metal. By the time I knew what it was I couldn't swerve into the middle lane as there was traffic there, so I had to just grin and take the impact.

My initial reaction was "Few, thank fuck for that." I thought I'd got away with it.

Driving back from London just after New Year I had hit some ice when I got home and skidded at the top of my road, mounting the curb and puncturing the tyre. Even then the 100 metres or so down my own road was hazardous, the car pulled from one side to the other, as any control I had deflated as quickly as the air from the tyre.

This time, apart from the sound, nothing happened. I still had full control.

"I was lucky there." I thought cockily.

However I looked horrified into the rear view mirror as the person behind me hit it, and the car after that.

"That's going to cause an accident." I thought to myself, as I drove along blissfully unaware of the drama about to unfold.

I carried on a further 4 miles, taking a junction further down and joining a different motorway, all part of my journey. As I reached the new motorway, there was an unusual sound starting to appear from the rear of the car. Eventually becoming so loud it drowned out the radio.

"This doesn't sound good." I thought.

Which reading now is the understatement of the year.

I pulled over on the hard shoulder, promptly activated my hazard lights, and jumped out.

I checked the front two tyres. Fine. Looking good.

I checked the rear passenger side, stopping to give it a good kick as I passed, to check the inflation level.

Also good.

I walked to the rear drivers side.

Disaster!

The entire tyre shredded. Smoke billowing off the rims, and the stench of rubber pungent in the air. Bollocks! By now it was 10.30am, leaving two and a half hours until I was meant to be on stage, in what could be a very important showcase.

I set about trying to change the wheel, but due to the wheel being the rear drivers side, I had lorries and cars whizzing past at 70 mph just one-two metres from my back. Precarious to say the least. I loosened the nuts, removed the cap off the 'special nut' and inserted the locking nut into the wrench to remove the 'special nut'. Every time I tried to pull down on the wrench the nut kept coming away at an angle from the car, almost as if the locking nut wasn't sitting on it properly. I rang the one person who can get you out of a crisis involving a car, on the side of a motorway...

My dad.

I could hear the mocking tone in his voice almost instantly. "Ha, you can't even change a fucking wheel properly." he was thinking.

 "No honestly the nut won't fit." I pleaded.

"Great, I'll have to come to help" he insisted.

Who was I to argue? I had no other option and time was ticking fast. For him to get there would be a good hour drive, but what ever I tried, nothing seemed to work, the nut wouldn't budge.

I had been there a good forty minutes by now, and not ONE person stopped to offer help or assistance. At this point I only felt I needed someone to hold the locking nut in place.

"Of course they won't stop." my dad said.

But why not? I'm not being hypercritical either. If I see anyone so much as walking up the verge with a petrol can in their hand, I stop, offer a lift to the garage, take them back to their car and then wait until its sorted. Why do people feel they can't help thy neighbour any more?

"It's just the way things are now, people are scared." people say.

"Bull-shit." I say.

I sat back in the car trying to regain some warmth. British winters are not the nicest even in the daytime. Fortunately it wasn't raining though.

Just as I got off the phone to my dad, and he had probably just got his coat and shoes on in readiness to come and help I imagined, I turned to my left and a man in a florescent jacket was peering in through the front passenger side window...

'Highway Patrol'.  "Thank you Lord." I thought, "At least you haven't let me down."

Unfortunately the news wasn't as good as I'd hoped.

Thanks for trying anyway big-G.

I quickly cancelled my dads imminent arrival. Luckily he hadn't left yet.

"The locking nut on cars are made out of cheap, soft metal." The patrol men explained.

"The grip on the inside of yours has worn away." He continued, after several unsuccessful attempts to remove the nut themselves. The highway patrol men didn't have a generic/universal one either. They are not allowed to interfere with break downs. Health and safety apparently??

"Fuck health and safety. I need to get to the theatre, and quick." I thought.

"Can't I just buy one, or my dad buy it and bring it down?" I asked. "Shortly that would be cheaper?" I insisted.

But things are never that easy.

"You can only get them from the car manufacturer as they are made for specific cars." They assured me.

Because I had no recovery or RAC/AA membership (Road side assistance for non-Brits), my dad quickly added it to my insurance premiums, with the idea of playing dumb and not mentioning the accident. However one of the highway patrol men, (Although faultless otherwise), opened his mouth telling them the accident happened 'before' we added the recovery. So they refused to send the recovery.

Or rather they would, but it would cost £80.

"£80 f***** quid! To change a wheel?" I exclaimed, shocked. But I had no choice.

This whole process took four hours. Yeah that's right FOUR hours. "Four hours to change a wheel? Are you serious?" I hear you ask.

I know, but with phoning my dad , the insurance company, and my boss about twenty times, not to mention the times it went to voice-mail or they didn't answer...I mean how can someone phone you, you miss the call, then call them literally straight back, and they still don't answer the phone? A matter of seconds in it? I never understand that. But all this messing around, waiting for people to confirm things, ring people, make payments, give instructions and directions, all added time. Not to mention my phone battery going flat.

Having an in car charger would be way too simple for me, as you might have guessed.

In all honesty the highway patrol men were incredible though. I'd still be sat there now if it wasn't for them. It's a pity the same can't be said about the great British public.

The play had to be postponed until 5pm leaving me another four hours to do nothing but twiddle my thumbs.

Brilliant! So much for an easy day.

This could all be classed as bad luck. However, having time to reflect on it now, I realise I'm very lucky it didn't take out any of the front wheels as the story could have been very different. The front wheels operate the steering so this would have definitely compromised the control of the car, especially at 82mph on one of Britain's busiest motorways. This blog could so easily have been an obituary. Everything came good in the end so it was good luck really, no one was hurt, and my car is still in one piece, minus one tyre, but the spare wheels on, so never mind. The tyre was only three weeks old though. £40 down the drain. Typical.

One of my directors great suggestions to try to get me there on time was... "Couldn't you just leave your car on the side of the motorway and pick it up later?"  (Cue stunned silence...)

As you guessed, I'm trying not to be sexist here, but yes she's female. Only a woman could say something as stupid as that. Leave your car on the hard shoulder unattended? It's not a fucking car park. I ask you? Honestly?

After all this I needed a cigarette so I found a garage 5 miles out of my way.

After this I've earned it you would think.

As you can guess from the title of this blog, I'm twenty eight. I know that I do look young for my age, but none the less I'm nearly thirty. So I pulled up to the garage in the car. Walked inside and went up to the counter and asked the guy for ten fags.

"Do you have any ID?" the assistant asked smugly.

Anger surged as blood pumped through my nicotine-less veins. I could have killed him. Because guess what?... I didn't.

In this country you have to BE 18 to buy cigarettes, but so shops don't sell to under age kids by mistakes, you have to LOOK 25. Just to er on the side of caution. Ok? So you have to defy the natural laws of ageing just to buy some fags? How can you BE 18, but LOOK 25? Surely if YOU ARE 18, you LOOK 18! NOT 30 or 32 or 46 but 18!

Note: Soapbox over. Pedestal de-mounted.

I actually said to a woman once, who had asked me for ID, "I know I look young, but can you honestly say at the age of 28, I look 17?"

She paused, thought about it, then replied, "No."

"So give me the cigarettes." I said.

"Yes, but you've got to LOOK 25." she said.

"Unbelievable." I said.

So I'm old enough to buy and drive a car? Old and responsible enough to stand on the dangerous hard shoulder of the motorway for 4 hours? Old enough to pay someone £80 to sort my car out? But I can't buy a pack of fags? I ask you? What is this country coming to?

Sod 28, I sound 82 now, with my moaning. It's not the age I look that bothers me, its the inconvenience when you have to travel miles out of your way to find a shop to serve you, just because I won't carry my passport with me 100% of the time. It wasn't a problem until I lost my plastic driving licence, which had my photo and date of birth. It costs £20 for a replacement though, and I just don't ever have that spare. It's just frustrating that's all.

Anyway I digress....

I finally got to the theatre at 2.30pm, another theatre company had offered to perform in our original slot of 1pm, and so we could take their slot of 4.40pm so we could still perform, which was very kind of them.

And just as I pulled into the car park, a bird did a huge, runny shit right on my windscreen.

"That just sums up my day...." I thought.