The barrage of lies, deceits and downright stupidity unfolding in the US Presidential Campaign caused Bruce and Fran to enter a period of solemn reflection this week.
It led them, in a rare moment of soul searching and honesty, to admit that they had been rather hasty in naming their vehicle the Hoonmobile back in May.
Sure, it was bright red and, as a three-litre guzzler that undermined their claims to care for the planet somewhat, had more power under its bonnet than the 1.2l Punto they left in the UK. What’s more, of all the great Aussie-isms they’d enjoyed in their early weeks in Melbourne, hoon was one of their favourites; what’s not to like about “DOB IN A HOON!”, up there with “YOU BLOODY IDIOT!” for promoting sensible driving (although, like Asbos in the UK, one can imagine certain sorts taking the mantle of hoon or even bloody idiot as a badge of honour).
But, no, the Magna is not a souped up super-Ute, a lowered Impreza or a boom box-laden Holden. It’s a car. A bit of a middle manager / family car at that.
Or so they thought, until Thursday night, when, enjoying a post-victory beer with the Mountain Goat indoor cricket team (having carefully plotted the route out of Northcote to avoid the Booze Bus (bloody idiots)*), the throbbing, insistent roar of altered car engines hit our ears.
One after another, swerving from side to side like F1 drivers warming their wheels pre-race, came a convoy of 25 cars, all with body kits and neon lights. Reaching the corner, they slowed, before accelerating into a series of the most pitiful front wheel spins and disappearing into the industrial site.
“Did you see that?” yelped one of our players excitedly. “The Magna Club! Doing that. In a Magna! Of all the cars!”
Bruce’s pride initially dented, his eyes followed the cars until they parked around the corner and opened up trunks and bonnets for fellow retards to inspect.
It took him back to Sunday nights in Nottingham, when the local retards would gather from across the Midlands to parade their modified Vauxhall Novas, Ford Fiestas and Citroen 2CVs around the “circuit” in one of the most pathetic and misconceived attempts at manliness (far less glamorous than its assumed title, the “circuit” was actually a small ring road around an ugly 70s concrete stack car park).
But, tail between legs – and upset that he’d been given a lift to the game and couldn’t show off his dented rear end (“YOU BLOODY POOF!”) to the other Magna Boyz – he returned home to Fran.
Then it dawned. They were hoons. They drove Magnas. They’d been right all along.
Their car was a Hoonmobile after all.
* One bottle of beer only. We’re not bloody idiots, you know
Hi Bruce and Fran
Lucky you, I bought a Subaru. Now that’s really pants.
xxx
Pants
Pants, perhaps, but with added hoonishness
[…] matter, she’s moved one step ahead of Bruce in the race to join Melbourne’s marvellous Magna Club. Bloody […]