Just testing

Emissions: Many, many moons ago, I was the victim of a grave injustice, the likes of which have not been seen since Adam was turfed out of the garden. I failed my driving test. I decided afterwards stamping my feet and holding my breath until I passed out, as is my wont, wasn't going to get me anywhere, so I wrote a tirade here instead.

As a result of my whinge, offers of free driving lessons came flooding in. Okay, so I exaggerate. There were three. Now, I'm no naïve young scut. These mystery benefactors weren't offering the services of their most experienced instructors to tutor yours truly for altruistic reasons. 'Twas plugs they wanted.

A far more accomplished motoring hack than I recently claimed to have refused to put pressure on the manufacturers of his obnoxiously expensive car into giving him special treatment on the grounds that he'd never benefited in any way from his position. (Apart, obviously, from having the cash to buy a €250,000 car.) How noble of him. I, on the other hand, have no such scruples. I simply want rid of my blasted L-plates. By any means necessary.

Know a professional rally driver who's the spit of me and who'd act as a test ringer? Let's have his number. Have a system for bribing testers? Send it in. Failing that, I'll take the free lessons and plug away to my heart's content.

Finally, after 11 months of poring sleeplessly over the minutiae of my last score sheet and plotting my terrible revenge, my wait is over. My test is next week.

The minute I got the date, I fished out my three-sided coin and tossed it. Apologies to the others, but RAC won. The coin was, admittedly, weighted in RAC's favour by the fact they had the driving simulator I wanted a gawp at.

It looks kinda cool, like an elaborate amusement arcade game, replete with full controls and surround screens. I jumped in. "Where's the fire button? Can you shoot boyracers?" I asked. They smiled benignly. They'd heard it all before.

For the complete novice, I can't think of a better way to start. After a few hours, you'd be halfway to being a decent driver before you ever got into a real car. Every secondary school should have one.

On to the real thing. Now, I couldn't rightly say if RAC put their best man on the job, I've no way of telling. For all I know, they have some gigantic manmachine that they wheel out for the terminal cases approaching their eleventh test. But Kevin, for that was his name, turned out to be the best instructor I've ever had.

That said, the first lesson was a disaster. I was nervous as a pig in a sausage factory. Here was a stranger watching my every move. And what moves they were. Amongst other aberrations, I whizzed straight through a yield sign, oblivious. I looked at Kevin to see his reaction. I'm no psychologist, but even I know it's safe to assume you're in trouble when the instructor is clutching the door handle so hard it's in danger of coming off in his hand.

We agreed to put it behind us and never speak of it again. The second was better. Like a horsewhisperer calming a volatile, unbroken mustang, he talked me through his various theories and manoeuvres that, while not failsafe, made the whole process of driving to test criteria less daunting.

Only a call to the RAC can reveal the details of his secrets, but I can tell you it's largely down to displaying a level of concentration and care that had I'd previously been lacking. I was brimming with confidence by the end of it. "Well?" says I. "What do you think?" "No major problems. I'd pass you if you drove in your test the way you have been this past hour."

A hex? Perhaps. But nowhere near as bad as the one I've just put on myself by writing this column. Now I'm really under pressure.