Age 23 fourth-hand Ford Ka, age 40 people-carrier: your life in your vehicles

GOT A car? Sure you do, and it’s broadcasting to everyone what stage of life you’re at with alarming accuracy. Here are the six cars of your life: 

Small, crap car – age 23

Driving around in a clapped-out three-door hatchback that struggles over 40mph and stinks of McDonald’s and marijuana? You’re lucky enough to be in your early 20s. Enjoy jump-starting it by pushing it along with your mates, because soon that’ll throw your back out.

The sensible business-mobile – age 32

Though you miss your little 1996 red Ka, it bit the dust on the way to a stag-do and now you’re obliged to get something that doesn’t embarrass you in front of women and prospective employers. It’s a boring five-seater in classy silver and you hate it.

The people-carrier – age 40

You thought you’d be a cool parent before the second child turned out to be twins. This giant bastard is a nightmare to park but perfect for carrying around so much of your children’s school shit the boot looks like a kit bin. This awful, lumbering beast is you now.

The mid-life crisis motor – age 51

Your kids are a little older now so you can afford to splash out on something just for you, your receding hairline and your diminished libido. It’s a tiny little convertible that your wife negotiated you down to, maybe a Mazda MX-5, and you drive it to golf.

The silver prestige vehicle – age 60

There comes a time in every person’s life where they have to buy a car that matches the colour of their hair, and that time is now. It’s a big Audi that you cruise around in at 45mph, almost causing accidents because everyone expects you to be doing twice that.

The small, crap car – age 75

The circle of life, eh? As if by magic, the shitty small car of your youth is back. No more than a jacked-up mobility scooter, this bad boy’s inability to get out of third is no issue because you’ve nowhere to go and love slowing everyone else down. You’ve earned it.

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Proposing marriage, and other activities ruined by woke Marxist Black Lives Matter knee-taking

YOU can’t tie a shoelace these days without accidentally backing the destruction of capitalism. Retired headmistress Margaret Gerving details the other knee-based activities it’s ruined: 


The holy institution of marriage has been under threat since it let the gays in, but now every proposal is a formal invitation to overthrow the white supremacist state the institution has been destroyed forever. To marry is now to form a two-person communist sleeper cell.


I can no longer kneel down on a cassock in St Peter’s and say a quiet prayer without the rest of the congregation thinking I want them chained together and demolishing statues of Queen Victoria with pick-axes. And I don’t. I was praying for an 16 per cent pension rise.

Providing oral pleasure

Already socialist at the least, this degenerate activity now makes you a traitor to your country’s heritage. I’m sorry but it’s true. And Joan at the village shop says the National Trust now encourages cottaging. She’s read it in the Express.


You can’t garden without kneeling, and I have a special padded mat from John Lewis, but how can I do it now without the neighbours assuming I want to defund the police? I’m too old to bend at the waist, so BLM has ruined my vegetable patch as well as the country.


The lady who runs the exercise class I go to in the village hall still insists on making us do lunges, despite me telling her we shouldn’t be prostrating ourselves for to a racist cult. She claimed lunges were good for your glutes and quads then banned me. I think she’s woke.

Being knighted

You can’t be knighted without kneeling, which means the Queen is recruiting high-ranking members of the establishment into Black Lives Matter, which means she’s the de facto head of Black Lives Matter and our mortal enemy. And Meghan is good. Whoah. This shit is deep.