My dad always told me “Son, pick your battles wisely”. It’s a mantra
I’ve followed and whether this was kicking the school bully in the
shins whilst his mates weren’t around or folding your pocket kings
when an ace hits the river, knowing when to make a move and when to
back away has served me well.

At a recent wedding I got put on a table with a rather obnoxious man.
Let’s call him “Jeremy” to protect the cretinous. Now I’ve travelled
to various countries around the world and one thing always amazes me
about tossers; irrespective of nationality, race or religion they
always make themselves known very early into an encounter. Jeremy was
no different.

I figured this unfortunate seating arrangement wouldn’t be an issue as
the Shiraz was flowing nicely so all I had to do was sit through the
meal and the (quite frankly excruciating) speeches. As long as I
didn’t engage him in conversation, I could drop this plum and head for
the bar the second the best man had finished stumbling over his notes.
Jeremy had other ideas.

“I hear you’re into cars. What’s your wheels?” he asked. Normally I’m
happy to talk for hours on end to any driving enthusiast but in
situations like weddings, dinner parties etc. you don’t know who
appreciates cars and who doesn’t. There are three possible answers to
this question:
1. “Focus”,
2. “Focus ST” or,
3. “Focus ST. You know, the one with the in-line five cylinder
turbocharged engine sourced from the Volvo stable. It has massive
mid-range torque for superior in gear acceleration blah, blah…”

Answering with option 3 singles you out as a bit of a nerd, not
something you want to do at a social gathering. Option 2 might result
in further questioning “ST? What’s that then?”. If they knew what an
ST was they wouldn’t need to ask. If they don’t know then they really
care about the answer and they’re leading you neatly down the geeky
cul-de-sac that is option 3.

I nearly always opt for simple answer of “Focus”. The cognoscenti may
then follow this up with “ST or RS?” informing you you’re now speaking
to somebody in the know. Otherwise the discussion is over, move on,
nice table display isn’t it?

I correctly predicted Jeremy’s “What’s your wheels?” was a leading
question because as the “s” of Focus left my lips it was instantly
countered with “I drive a Beemer”. “Oh?” I asked, trying to sound as
disinterested as possible. “Yeah it’s the latest model, picked it up
last Tuesday and cruised down in her this morning. It’s so fast you
know”

Every sinew in my being resisted giving him the pleasure of pursuing
this any further but somebody else at the table enquired “Which engine
has it got?”. “It’s a 320D” Jeremy proudly announced. I should have
guessed. That car is the epitome of pretentiousness and badge snobbery
and everything about Jeremy shouted hollow and conceited, from his
Premiership footballer’s mullet to his permatanned vacuous wife. I
don’t understand how Jeremy et al can warrant spending £25k, or more
likely paying the tax on £25k, for a poverty spec BMW when something
as accomplished as a fully loaded ST220 sits within their budget. Yes,
the BMW is rear wheel drive but do you think Jeremy cares about that?
Do you think he even knows that?

Now I’d love to have started destroying Jeremy and his oh-so-fast
diesel and suggesting other cars that he could have spent his £25k on
but there really wasn’t much point. Plus I could feel Mrs TKF’s eyes
burning into me. If we’d been Stella swilling chavs outside a pub
she’d have been holding onto my arm with one hand with a kebab in the
other shouting “Leave him, he’s not worth it”. But we were in a
marquee, the Stella was Mount Bold Barossa Valley Shiraz and the kebab
was a delightful poached salmon fillet. In this case a simple look
sufficed.

I could also hear my dad’s words “Pick your battles wisely” softly
drifting across the air like Obi Wan Kenobi. In this case I would have
been arguing with stupidity and, frankly, I would have lost.

I was reminded of this encounter yesterday when I made the mistake of
daring to venture into the BMW lane on the M40. Right on cue a blue
propeller badged saloon was sat within inches of my bumper apparently
trying to inspect the contents of my boot. The traffic was such that I
couldn’t move over yet but as soon as the road in front opened up Mr
Aspires-To-Middle-Management behind flashed his lights at me. Two cogs
down and a short blast on the right pedal was all that was needed to
dispatch the BMW which quickly became a dot in the mirror.

Further up the road the traffic slowed again and the BMW caught up,
kidney grill filling my mirror. Once again he took up usual seat
sniffing my exhausts and once again the traffic meant that there was
nowhere for me to go. This time the car in front had barely moved into
the middle lane before I got a full blast of main beam. Now you could
forgive him the first time for not recognising a Focus ST or knowing
what it could do. The ST is unlikely to even appear on his radar when
speaking to the fleet manager. However, to flash again after what had
occurred was just plain dumb. I guess it’s just a kind of Pavlovian
response for Jeremy and his chums. Must. Get. By. This. Car.

This time around instead of giving him another demonstration for him
to ignore I moved over. As he passed I noticed the telltale badge on
the bootlid; Three-Twenty-Dee. I’d tried to make my point but sadly it
had fallen on bluetooth headset adorned deaf ears. All he was doing
was thinking about how great his presentation would be at the upcoming
flange selling conference. All I’d done was wasted petrol.

I shook my head and wish I’d listened to my father’s prudent words
“Son, pick your battles wisely”

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 17th, 2008 at 5:58 pm and is filed under Motoring. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.