Meditation on the A30
by John Betjeman
(Collected Poems, John Murray)

A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He opens the throttle and bubbles with dottle
And puffs at his pitiful life.

“She’s losing her looks very fast,
She loses her temper all day;
That lorry won’t let me get past,
This Mini is blocking my way.

“Why can’t you step on it and shift her!
I can’t go on crawling like this!
At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead –
Thank heavens we don’t have to kiss.

“I’d like a nice blonde on my knee
And one who won’t argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me?
I only give way to a Jag.

“You’re barmy or plastered,
I’ll pass you, you bastard –
I will overtake you. I will!”
As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
And the corner’s accepting its kill.

This is a poem for anyone who has ever driven a car, because we must all have suffered road rage at one time or another, even if only for a moment. But sometimes that one moment is all it takes to cause an accident.

For most of us, the sudden realisation of possible consequences quells our fury before we act foolishly. For others, however, their anger is just fed into the accelerator and the vehicle becomes a missile. When drivers cannot control their temper, they are no longer in control of the car; their anger is in control of them and they take risks at a point where their brain is no longer fully engaged. They should get out of the car immediately, preferably when it’s no longer moving.

Death cannot be undone. And crippling injuries can cause pain and distress every minute of every day for an entire lifetime. But oddly enough, there are people who don’t take these facts into consideration when overtaking, turning without signalling, or driving on the wrong side of the road around bends (a local favourite). And if the driver is furious then everything is done with more speed and impatience, increasing the likelihood that a thoughtless manoeuvre may have dire results.

The decisions of this man in his car are directly affected by his preoccupation with his encounter with his wife over breakfast, which has left him seething.

He projects the way that he feels about her on the vehicles around him; everyone is an obstruction, just as she is, and his bitterness at his life compounds the fury that he feels. As his adrenalin pumps, his ability to think rationally evaporates. He puffs on the dregs of his pipe (the dottle) all mixed with saliva (so it bubbles) and vents his anger on his “pitiful life”, beginning with the fading looks and increasing temper of his once dearly beloved.

There is no longer any affection in his marriage – they don’t kiss, although one wonders what kind of effort he was making in the relationship if his wife wishes he were dead. He thinks he could have a “nice blonde” on his knee (why always blonde? Brunettes can be just as nice) who doesn’t nag or complain. But she is only a clichéd symbol of apparent success, as is the Jag he’d make way for, when success should be about so much more than the ability to buy a car that ultimately means nothing.

Someone hoots at him and it echoes the nagging of his wife; it doesn’t occur to him that he may have deserved it. Drivers need to give and take, which he won’t do on the road or in his marriage – unless it’s for a vehicle or a woman he considers to be a superior model.

It’s as if he’s saying: “It’s all your fault!” to the image of his wife in his head as he races on; he is a man who refuses to take responsibility for his own part in his fate. When he overtakes just before the corner and is about to die, one can only hope he takes no one else with him. For “corner” read “coroner”. And don’t drive angry.

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