This is an article I did for Vice. It’s serious. I’m close on skint and trying to flog my car.
I’m trying to get rid of my car. It’s got outstanding speeding tickets in four countries and a really bad attitude. Instead of putting together a dull ad, I thought I’d interview it so any potential buyers would get a clear picture of the machine they might inherit. If you do decide to become the next lucky owner, the speeding tickets will stick with me–almost definitely.
Vice: Hi, thanks for taking the time to talk to us.
Car: Sure, I’ve always liked Vice.
Thanks, can you maybe tell us a little bit about your early life?
Oh wow, did you know I’m 11 years old now? The old memory isn’t what it used to be. Let me see, I was bought new by a retired man in Belfast. The troubles were still going on about then. Scary times. My owner was a Protestant so of course that’s the side I was with… but politics bores me, can we move on?
Of course, lets. That was my granddad, right?
Yes it was. Good man. Old Spice and Wurther’s Originals. Snappy dresser too. You know, that was a nice start in life. In the six years he had me, I got about 20,000 on the clock and not even one crumb on the backseat. It was peachy. Plus, the ashtray was never even opened.
Who came along after that?
After your granddad died your mother bought me and I became a commuter car. I hated that, getting up every morning up at stupid o’clock just to sit in traffic listening to her evangelical music and then spend the entire day outside a factory. My only bit of company until your mother finished work was the occasional dog taking a leak on my back wheel.
How was my mother’s driving?
Surprisingly good for a blond. Apart from a couple of dings, she kept me safe for four years. Maybe there was something to all that glory, glory Jesus music after all. Never as much as looked at a cigarette either. You could have had your dinner out of my ashtray.
Then what came next?
Well you did. You put two nasty “L” plates on my front and rear windows and had all your friends come over to chain smoke inside me. Within a couple of months I had scratched doors, a loose wingmirror and all sorts of junk perched on the dashboard. I looked like something dragged out of the sea.
Sorry. Was it really that bad?
Was it that bad? You reversed into a wooden fence in Antwerp on a street big enough to turn a truck, you dumbfuck. And don’t get me started about all my indoor carpark bruises.
But there were good times, no?
Like the time your flatmate keyed me?
Hey, that was mistaken identity. She thought you were our landlord’s car. What about your future? What type of owner are you looking for next?
Maybe someone who can put my back seat to some use. What do you mean by that? Have you seen how far they recline? Man it’s as good as a friggin king size bed when you slide the seatbelts free. I’d like the next owner to be someone who can at least get some.
Not on my watch, kiddo. Falling asleep with your hand up someone’s shirt might count with your pussy-ass friends, but not me. Seen too much, these eyes.
OK, lets change direction a little. Are you fast?
Does a bear shit in the woods? These four wheels move quicker than a hot snot.
What about looks? Do you think you can you manage to get the next person who owns you laid?
Go ask your mother.
Well I probably could have gotten someone laid if you hadn’t gone and turned me into a lollipop.
You don’t like the paint job?
Not one bit, Picasso. If it’s not the homophobes, it’s the hippie haters, and if it ain’t them, it’s some community watch group afraid that I’m some mobile kiddie-fiddler. This color scheme has made me zero friends.
So do you have any good memories at all from our two years together?
OK, OK, there was this one time when your girlfriend drove the car home from a festival as you were still over the limit. I liked her. How’d you fuck that up?
Anyway, she was in this summer dress and she looked real good. But the best part was these shitty plimsoles that she was wearing. I remember about halfway back to the city she slipped right out of them so there was nothing between my pedals and her tiny naked feet.
Are you trying to tell me that your favorite memory from all our time together was getting turned on by my ex-girlfriend’s feet after they’d been inside a pair of rotten shoes for three days at a festival?
And there you go turning me on again.
Wouldn’t want to be any other way.
How much do you think I’ll get for you?
You’ll be lucky if you get a handshake.