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I hate cars.  As a method of getting from A to B in a reasonably efficient manner they do the job most of the time, but on the small percentage of occasions when they let you down they are evil, unforgiving, money-spunking contraptions.

You see, the problem with cars is that there are always problems.  If your hobby happens to be tinkering around underneath cars fixing things then owning a car is the greatest thing in the world, as there will always, always be something wrong with it.  There will always be something to fix or tinker with, and if not there will be things to clean, make louder or ‘soup-up.’

If you want something reliable to get you to work and back every day and not cost too much, then you’re screwed, because owning and running a car is a never-ending outflow of cash.  Even if you’re fortunate enough to opt into a company car scheme, you still end up paying income tax on the ‘benefit in kind’ (that is, a non-cash form of remuneration that should be subject to tax as if it had been earned as cash).

And they’re all in on the deal, car people.  Aren’t they?  You spent a shitload of money buying a lovely new car, and you never stop paying for it until the day you get rid of it, at which point you buy a new car and start the whole process again.  If there’s something wrong with it you take it into the garage and — at Ford, at least — they charge you an EIGHTY-FIVE pound “inspection fee.”  EIGHTY-FIVE POUNDS just to LOOK AT THE FUCKING THING.

Then they tell you it needs a pissy little pump, or a filter, or a dust cap, which isn’t that expensive, you’re assured, but it’ll cost two hundred quid in labour because it takes them fifteen seconds to fit the cunting thing.  And then a week later you realise they didn’t fit the cunting thing correctly anyway, as your car splutters and dies on the M6 on your way to the Lake District for a relaxing break.

Then you take it back to Ford and have the temerity to suggest that they may not have done their job properly only to be told it’ll be ANOTHER EIGHTY-FIVE QUID for them to lift the bonnet and check their own shoddy fucking workmanship.  The only saving grace is the barely-apologetic phone call later to say that “the pump hadn’t attached itself” (note the brazen implication that it was the pump’s fault — an inanimate object, I feel obliged to point out — not the fuckwit who charged me six million pounds an hour to fuck it up), and, the man says with a weary, defeated sigh, “there will of course be no charge.”

“I SHOULD THINK FUCKING NOT, YOU INCOMPETENT ROBBING BASTARDS” you want to scream but don’t, instead bumbling an overly-eager “Thanks very much, that’s great, I’ll pick it up later — when’s best for you?”

So, I’m getting rid.  That’s right, I’m selling my car.  It was pride and joy when I bought it brand spanking new six years ago.  I remember the proud but unnerving moment I handed over my £3,000 deposit, and I remember feeling cool choosing ‘Panther Black’ metallic paint, although I still to this day regret thinking £500 was far too much to spend on extravagances like Air Conditioning and a heated front windscreen.

When I think back on all the great times I’ve had in it, all the great albums I listened to for the first time in it, all the cans of Red Bull I’ve drunk in it (one of the favourable by-products of driving long distances and/or late at night is that it’s pretty much the only time I feel justified in drinking Red Bull), all the Ginster’s Peppered Steak Slices I’ve eaten, all the shards of pastry from all the Ginster’s Peppered Steak Slices I’d eaten that I had to sweep from between my legs onto the floor, my bogey collection (front under-side of the seat, if you’re interested), the time I hit that motorcyclist…  All happy times.

But regardless, I’m selling it.  And what’s more, I’m going to try and survive without a car.  For a while at least.  I’m getting the bus to work in the mornings and we’re going to try and be a one-car couple for a few months at least.  Not for any ‘green’ reasons, I must point out — primarily for economical reasons.  And only time will tell if this is a monufuckingmentally disastrous decision.

Pros of ditching my car and getting the bus:

• £cash from selling it
• Works out £1,000 cheaper per year to get the bus to work every day (before considering any inevitable repairs)
• I’ve already read Catch 22 (brilliant!) and am part way through Martin Amis’ Money (okay)
• Bit of exercise walking from the bus stop to work and back every day

Cons of ditching my car:

• I love my car.

*Gulp*