Nine types of drivers to avoid on Melbourne roads
MELBOURNE roads are clogged enough without having to deal with these dim and dangerous motorists. Here are nine types of drivers to look out for on our roads.
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DRIVING in a busy city is difficult enough without having to come across dopey, dangerous drivers.
From the load bearer with his fridge balanced precariously on his trailer, to the hothead who doesn’t care if he lives or dies so long as he sticks it to that jerk who cut him off.
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Here’s a list of the Melbourne drivers you need to avoid.
VIN DIESEL
This teen revhead has seen every single Fast and Furious movie, even the later ones that were really phoned in, and reckons his second-hand Ford can do anything those hotted-up stunt cars can do.
Since its purchase at Car City, the chariot has undergone a metamorphosis from bland sedan to street-racing machine.
Mags, neons, red seats, Duco polish.
Nobody can catch this four-cylinder powerhouse when it’s whizzing past school zones with the subwoofer pumping.
Except Victoria Police. They have no problem catching it.
NON-BINARY LANE DRIVER
Why put up with society’s arbitrary labels?
Why be satisfied with the categories thrown on us by government and archaic values?
Why limit yourself to one lane when you can wander over the line and drop to 20km below the limit, delivering fellow travellers to psychosis?
Because it’s the law to stay in your own lane. Just stay in the lane.
GERONIMO
Decked out with enough gear to make the Stoccos jealous, old mate is prepared for the worst of the worst.
Take a look at that snorkel. That’ll really come in handy for river crossings in Oakleigh.
And those mudguards haven’t seen action since it was easier to park at the G.
It’s easy to laugh at Geronimo until he sees you broken down on the side of the Tulla and pulls over to fix your problem in 30 seconds.
THE CHARITY STICKER HOARDER
Pulling up behind this driver is like hitting your head on a uni noticeboard.
Sea Shepherd. Greenpeace. PETA. Support nurses. Support unions. Support podiatrists. Volvo. Wait, that came with the car.
Most likely to drive an early 90s clunker with an illegible Garden State numberplate that looks like it could only be repaired with Soviet tank parts and is in no way good for the environment.
THE HOTHEAD
At the office or at home with the kids he’s a normal fun-loving guy.
But when the key turns in the ignition a little switch turns in his mind.
Then he doesn’t care if he lives or dies so long as he sticks it to that jerk who cut him off.
Screaming, erratic braking, getting out of the car and picking fights once he’s confident his opponent is physically weaker are all part of the commute.
He probably acts like a completely normal person once he’s turned off the engine and pried the bits of bike out of the grill.
Most likely to drive a black ute, black Jeep or black sedan with a rear spoiler.
THE OLD TIMER
Cars that drive themselves using satellite tracking are just around the corner.
Such a long way since they were powered by steam and peddles, as this driver might well remember.
Back then cars could only go about 20km/h.
This driver, now a spritely 90, is committed to sticking to that speed.
That speed will only be exceeded in the increasingly likely event the accelerator is mistaken for the brake.
LOAD BEARER
That fridge looks to have only a tenuous grip on the edge of the tailgate and those bicycle straps are dangerously frayed.
But she’ll be right, mate. The load bearer has it under control.
It doesn’t matter how piled up your trailer is, so long as you have a piece of cardboard with your numberplate written big in biro stickytaped to the back.
It doesn’t matter if a piece of pipe is sticking 15m out the back of the van — just hang a bit of rag off it and everything’s tickety-boo.
It’ll all come unstuck in spectacular fashion on the M1 when the wind gets up.
THE EASTERN SUBURBS HOUSEWIFE
Sitting in an expensive car far higher from the road than they should be and with limited peripheral vision due to a pair of Jimmy Choo sunnies, it’s easy to get in a fix on the way to the salon.
How many points are there in a three-point turn? About 19, right?
Please don’t toot, it belittles us all.
If the market had been a bit better last financial year this driver could just get a chauffeur and be done with it.
Most likely to drive a European wagon that turns itself off and on again at traffic lights.
THE RED P-PLATER
Like Alice down the rabbit hole, this wide-eyed beginner is still getting into the swing of things.
Why isn’t the car moving? Oh, handbrake.
Why isn’t it moving now? Oh, ignition.
Despite being the least experienced they always seem to be the most confident about reverse parking into a tight space in front of a bank of traffic.
In vain.
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