Real drivers...
Don't make a song & dance about adverse conditions.
Have one tanned arm.
Don't ask for directions.
Can smell a Ginsters pasty from twelve miles away.
Have a photo of their car in their wallet not the kids.
Know of every greasy spoon within at least fifty square miles of the front door.
Know when the traffic light's turning green, before it does.
Buy their clothes at Auto Jumbles.
Have M.O.T's, not health checks.
Smoke rubber & drink Nitro methane.:twisted:
Use Autosol on their farmer Giles.
Your not a real driver until...
You've filled the tank with the wrong fuel at least once.
Had an artic suffer a blow out as your passing him.
You've been to a Little Chef at least once. :bigsmile:
You've reduced to a seething gibbering mess, having apparently encountered every example of thumb up bum, mind in neutral driving known to man, on your one mile drive to work.
You find your self shouting at road signs.
You know you're a real driver when...
You have tyre treads for finger prints.
You have granulated tyre floor tiles instead of carpet.
The missus/girl friend left you twelve months ago but you haven't been out of the garage & in the house long enough to notice.
Your garage is at least twice the size of the house you live in.
When the only soap you have in the house is Sorefinger sorry Swarfega.
You have the Snap-on rep on speed dial one, the local parts dept' on two & your girlfriend scrapes in on three.
You know all the metric to imperial equivalent sockets, but you haven't the faintest idea what your shoe size is.
You get lost in Asda, but you can give directions round any ring road in the U.K.
You've named you dog TomTom.
This has kept me up far too long! I'm going to bed now.:amuse:
Sorry I just had to.
