OK. At the last count, we had bus lanes, cycle lanes, pedestrian-only precincts, red zones, box junctions, double-yellow lines, CPZs, disabled-only parking, mother and-baby bays, congestion zones. We've got the Kyoto Accords (undoubtedly A Good Thing, whatever our American cousins might think), oil at $50 a barrel (and whose fault is that?), an SUV backlash (also A Good Thing - and that goes for all 4X4s driven by wives who think their vehicles are 20 feet wide). We've got bloody bendy buses taking two and a half days to turn the corner, and then running into things halfway through the manoeuvre. We've got cyclists on the pavement, pedestrians in the road, demented yoof skateboarders with no idea where they are.

It's a traffic jungle, I grant you.

But can I make an humble plea? Is there any chance that a modest Skoda owner - I've heard all the jokes, thank you - might somehow find a way through this minefield (and it probably will be mined soon, if some TfL wonk has his way: believe me it will be a him) to DRIVE to work? It's heresy, I know - but some of us have to do it, and we're getting desperately tired of apologising.

Trouble is, by the time all of the above have taken their rightful place in the appropriate lane/ area/bay, there's virtually no room for a car on anything remotely resembling a road, any more.

If you can access some tarmac, you have to have a degree in trigonometry to make sure you have the necessary momentum/trajectory/speed and papers to overtake the bendy, avoid the ambulants who've decided to reclaim the streets simply because they can't be arsed to stay on the pavements, deploy pedestrian-calming measures that wouldn't be out of place at the UN - and stall behind the only extant learner driver in N16.

So: a plea. Us drivers know we're mad and bad. But some of us don't have the luxury of choice. And we try - we really do try - to take all necessary measures to limit pollution, avoid congestion, drive responsibly. But if one more cyclist takes a side-swipe at the serially battered front wing of my already beleagured Skoda, I swear I'll rip his arm off and hit with the soggy bit.

It's called road rage.

Indian Memory Man Joke 

By Rab MacWilliam

Looking through some back issues of N16 the other day, it suddenly occurred to me that we have never published any jokes. How sad is that, over six years? To redress the balance slightly, here is a much abbreviated version of one of my favourites.

Twenty-five years ago, Alec and Morag were about to get married in Glasgow. 'Where'll we go on honeymoon, hen? Rothesay?', says Alec. 'Nah, that's boring', says Morag . 'I was reading the other day about Florida. Let's go there'.

So off they flew across the Atlantic, landed at Miami, hired a car and headed down to the Keys. Driving down the Interstate, Alec noticed a gleaming, newly painted wooden sign with the words 'Indian Memory Man, Next Right' inscribed on it. 'This looks interesting' thought Alec and pulled the car into the turning. 

The couple walked down a freshly-mown, well-tended path until they reached a brand-new canvas tepee. Alec pulled back the entrance flap and there, in the centre of the tent, sat a cross-legged young Indian, his jetblack hair crowned with a single eagle's feather, who stared at them with a deep intensity. 'I am the Indian Memory Man. Ask me any question and I will answer it', he said. 'OK', said Alec, 'who won the 1923 Scottish Cup Final and what was the score?'. The Indian replied immediately. 'Celtic. 1-0'.
'Amazing' said Alec, something of an expert on Scottish football.
'How did he know that?' The couple congratulated the Indian, left the tepee and began their holiday, soon forgetting about the encounter.

Glasgow, the present day and a Silver Anniversary. Alec and Morag decide to celebrate by returning to Florida and retracing their honeymoon all those years ago. Back they go on the plane, hire a car at Miami and drive off down to the Keys. On the way there, Alec spots a faded, wooden sign, hanging from a post by one hinge, containing the barely legible words 'Indian Memory Man, Next Right'. 'I wonder if he's still there', thinks Alec and pulls into the turning. The pair push their way through an overgrown path, through the dangling palm fronds and reach a dilapidated old tepee.

They open the flap and go in. In front of them is the same Indian, although now sporting a mane of flowing white hair and a full chief's headdress. The intensity of the stare is undiminished. Morag takes Alec to one side. 'He's obviously now an important man', she says, 'treat him with respect'. Alec says 'I know how to do it. I've seen it on the telly', walks up to the Indian, raises his arm with outstretched palm and solemnly intones 'How'. The Indian looks up at him and replies ''Penalty. 35th minute'.