My very first Road Traffic Accident

I've recounted my first 'lesson', for what it was worth. To cut a long story short I embarked on a series of lessons. A little guy in a brown Ford Escort was my teacher. He was good. Must have been. I passed first time; that gave me a false confidence in my own ability.

It was September 1974. I mention the month because that is significant. I had learnt during the summer. I had never driven in the dark. Now I was fully qualified and without a car; and the nights were starting to draw in.

I drove my dad's car a couple of times with him and mum as passengers and then asked the question.

'Can I borrow your car?'

'Of course son.'

Sounds innocuous enough until you realise that; a) I was wanting to borrow it on a Saturday night and ; b) I would be driving in the dark.

Dad, oh dad why did you let me???? What did you think a 20 year old was going to do on a Saturday night for gawd's sake???

This is the car. A smart high spec, for its day, Austin 1800. I believe it has a nickname, 'The Landcrab'. It was renowned for its roadholding; low slung for its time. It was his pride and joy.

I was to take it out on his 50th birthday. Boy, was he in for a present.

Off we went. Me and two mates. We drove up to Sunderland; a favourite weekend haunt and tonight we weren't having to use the bus. Woo Hoo.

I had, in my wisdom, decided that I could drink four pints without any problem. I cannot remember the scientific reasoning behind it.

So four pints I had. All different for we would drive up to a pub, park ostentatiously, in a well lit part of the car park and swagger off into the pub hoping we'd been noticed by any local totty.

The car was more of a novelty than the beer so after a pint we'd bugger off to another pub.

And another pint.

After four I declared that we needed to stop the drinking and go into the town centre to one of the night clubs. I was being sensible. I say that with a huge dollop of irony.

What the fuck I was going to do in a night club I have no idea. I'd never before stood with a lemonade. This was the North East; the Seventies. Think 'Life on Mars'. We were men.

I had a vague notion I'd pull and wouldn't need to drink. What my mates were supposed to do hadn't entered my woolly head. It was academic.

I drove into the centre. It was late. I had never driven in the dark and never with four pints down my gullet. I drove up a one way street towards a cross roads with a bollarded island to help you decide. The oncoming road was one-way coming towards me so I had a choice. Right or Left. We couldn't decide.

So I drove straight on. Through the island with bollards. Stove in a wing of the car. And up the one-way street; the wrong way. Witnessed by two policemen on the beat.

With great presence of mind I swung into a side street. This was one-way too. And I was going the wrong way. As I swung in we passed a 'Jam Sandwich'; colloquial slang for 'Patrol Car'. They were white with a broad double fluorescent scarlet strip in those days; hence the sandwich.

I think my door was opened as I turned the ignition off. I will be forever grateful to the officer who opened the door. He wasn't sarcastic. He didn't have to be. My faux pas had been witnessed by four policemen.

I failed the breathalyser; surprise, surprise.

My mates were in luck. The accident had happened within a hundred yards of the bus station so they buggered off and I was taken to the cop shop.

This was in the days when a breathalyser had to be backed up by either a urine or blood test. I was too traumatised to have a piss so they had to ring the duty doctor to come and take blood.

While I was waiting I witnessed what went on in police stations in the early hours. Loads of drunks mostly. I was intrigued by a stunning bottle blond with amazing legs. She distracted me from my woes. I felt sorry for her as she was in tears. I later discovered she was a prostitute. The first I had ever seen.

Eventually a tired middle aged doctor came and stuck a needle in me.

The policeman who had arrested me took me home. He was nice. I think he felt sorry for me.

Then I let myself in. The night of dad's 50th birthday. Oh shit.

'Dad'

'DAD'

Eventually a mumbled answer.

'What?'

'I've smashed your car'

It was two o'clock in the morning. They both came down. A stunned silence as I recounted events.

'Hit me, hit me', I pleaded. For the only time in my life I pleaded with another man to beat the living daylights out of me. I'm not a masochist.

Postscript; He didn't hit me. He admitted later that it was the only time he came near to doing so.

I passed the blood test too!! So I only got done for 'Driving without due care' I was very very lucky.

The damage cost £150; in today's terms a couple of grand. I paid. I was a good saver and it cleaned me out. It went some way to repair my reputation; although there are many other stories about that!

I didn't drive dad's car for another 15 years or so.

The moral?

Don't lend your car to your son on a Saturday night.

And think of your own idiotic behaviour when young before you criticise your own kids!