Article published in the outsider magazine during 2001

ROAD ENRAGED

picture this: the northern adriatic coast of communist yugoslavia; summer heat; beach; girlfriend; me, the heroic boyfriend, swimming to an island 500 metres or so off. halfway across a jaws memory surfaces and starts circling and, within seconds, post-jaws thoughts begin to reveal their razor sharp dentures and suddenly, as “i wonder if” turns to “oh shit”, the distant shore begins to seem to start floating away from me and i might as well be mid-atlantic.

now, years later, i’m crossing diagonal. i’m complacent because i know that in spain as a pedestrian you’re given much longer than in the u.k. to cross the road. the green man is beckoning, so i’m strolling, as you do, after all it’s barcelona, the laid-back coolest place on the med. no! on the planet, for christ’s sake! anyway, the old gas pedal won’t take me over stroll. the only alternative speed is: “otra cerveza por favor”. once more, there’s a sudden change of mood as green man starts flashing and, bloody hell is there a shafting moped convention in bcn, a whole school of sharks start grinding their teeth as i’m somewhat inconveniently up to my knees in treacle and finding the old forward motion more testing than when i set off to cross this piece of tarmac. suddenly, green man flashing and (you should know that here that’s green light for go) gone are your ordinary human rights chico because ahora estas en mi puto camino and i’ve been waiting at least half an hour for these lights to change. most of the sharks in this city are wearing helmets and pretty much go where they please when they please! there’s one now going into that supermarket! why did the pollo cross the road in bcn? he wants his head examined, if you ask me! did franz kafka ever visit this great city? if he did he’d never’ve reached the other side of this road!

now i’m driving and the road’s empty. i’m crossing the forested collserola by the arrabassada which goes from sant cugat to barcelonat. i’m doing a paltrow (meaning far more insubstantial and flimsy than anything paltry - better known as a gwyneth) 86kmph and shit, there’s a mosso (traffic cop) flagging me down. the irony hurts more than the fine because here i am being fined for speeding in spain, where if you don’t drive like carlos sainz you’re in for one hell of a homoerotic time. this is how it goes. empty autopista, just you and a few mules, with space for all to go at their own rhythm. but no! there he is in your rear mirror, right up close, so close as to take you four-by-four. he could’ve swept past you but first he needed to remind you that he is one mean exhaust-pumping hijo de su mama and that you are criminally slow and in his way. so he’s going to take you when he pleases. you can whiff his aftershave and the smell of his mama’s cooking as he roars past you in third, filled with a grizzled swarthy contempt for the sexuality of your driving. he leaves me with my nerves rubbed raw. going back recently and driving on the roads of the u.k. which, despite being crowded, seemed so quiet, orderly and well mannered by comparison.

i’m told that in october the spanish state, out of concern for the terrifying number of deaths (top of the europops in this chart) on the roads is introducing an extremely harsh regime of fines and prison sentences for speeding and driving offences: anyone caught over 50% above the speed- limit on any type of road will receive an instant on-the-spot fine of 100,000 little ones. well, here i am, still haven’t crossed diagonal and, i tell you, each and every one of these psychos should be instantly forced to contribute to the upkeep of el presidente’s moustache.

by peter zelaskowski

out there in the middle somewhere