My brother and I scrapped my old car this morning. This was no mean feat, it meant a number of things, not least having two crowbars trying to pry my eyeballs out as we ventured into the land of official scrapping… of cars, returning a tax disc to the DVLA, form filling, proof of identity, driving a wreck without insurance for a couple of miles with no water in the radiator and no way to put any in as the bonnet was crushed shut. But let’s start with the eyeballs. That’s my standard reaction to official hoop jumping, the crossing of eyes and dotting of tease. It’s a guaranteed wind up before I even open my door to step into their mad world.
In order to scrap a car one must remember to take the vehicle log book to the scrap dealer. Naturally, I forgot this. Fortunately my brother remembered it less than half a mile down the road. We dumped my car half on the pavement and zipped back in his car and armed ourselves with the tattered relic of a long vehicle life. Not for the first time this morning I thought lovingly of a thermo nuclear device, however, such was not available, so off we set. Take two.
The journey and process was fairly uneventful. I had concerns about proving my identity, but they accepted the ragged remains of my paper license, for reasons I have no way to understand, and we departed with an impressively sized cheque. The numbers were less impressive than its sheer physical size. Perhaps it’s a compensation thing, like having an ego bigger than your cock. Something that seems to afflict jobsworths and bureaucrats everywhere.
My brother had reminded me several times to remember to remove the tax disc. I remembered to remove the tax disc. Wonders will never cease. At 62, I consider that a personal best, given that there was so far no let up of the eyeball pressure and my brain was already fried.
We made it home and there was a refreshing car shaped hole in my neighbours yard, which he had kindly lent me prior to my cars final demise. The car, though, was now safely on the way back to its maker.
Of the DVLA and eyeballs.
Blessed be the holy Google. A DVLA printable form for the exchange of dead tax discs for money. The form was a wonder to behold with all sorts of dire warnings and threats about doing it right, such that on completion one is left with the utter conviction of having done it all wrong. Such forms are fearless in their condemnation of any mistakes and the consequences are enough to force my eyeballs close to escape velocity. I meticulously filled in the form, trembling in every knee and jerk, and, following the instructions like a demented clone, I finally fastened the tax disc with clear perpendicular Sellotape in the indicated, demarcated, official way. Holy crap, I’d done it. I am familiar enough with addresses and envelopes that the final enclosing of this holy artifact of persecution into it’s peaceful white glove and the stumble to the old familiar post box presented no difficulty.
Of cheques and eyeballs.
All that remained was to pay in the cheque and that meant a trip to Bath, something I have not done for several years. I found a parking space, I navigated my way through the heaving streets of this famous Spa city, I passed the poster sized cheque to the nice lady in the bank, ‘Is there a way I can do this by post in future?’ I asked, ‘Oh yes,’ she blithely replied, ‘just put your sort code and account number on the back and send them to us, no need to include a letter.’ What!?! I made good my escape before I discovered what the catch was. To simple, too simple by far. I am not fooled.
I had thought to find a cafe and complete my notes for today’s venture into this very peculiar wild but as I wove my way through the streets and bodies I had just one recurring thought… ‘How can they stand this?’ A steady beating commenced behind my eyeballs, it was the harbinger of bad news, I was about to lose them. Clutching my car keys like the holy grail I made it to the car and drove for my life. This is a testimony that me and my eyeballs have made it back, as lovingly attached to each other as ever.
Keith Lindsay-Cameron
