We've been overwhelmed in Emissions Towers with the abnormal reaction to last week's tale of road rage. We're barely able to cope, having been literally inundated with a letter, writes Kilian Doyle.
"I'm very surprised at your response to that thug. You rolled over like a puppy," it read. "What happened to the angry young man of yore that we all knew and loved? Why didn't you knock that jumped-up little hooligan on his backside?"
An interesting - if a tad unexpected - observation. Thanks Mum. I had been complimenting myself on my Gandhi-esque serenity in the face of extreme provocation. But the letter made me accept the ugly truth - Porsche Monkey only escaped my wrath by the skin of a nicotine patch.
I smoked for years. Gave up. For years. But I recently developed a delusional belief that I could have the odd Cohiba on special occasions. I rapidly became hopelessly in thrall to tobacco again. A special occasion sprang up every half hour.
I even got up at night for sneaky golden moments out in the back garden with my Cuban amigos.
Some of you may remember how this column used to be a merciless rant. No target was safe. No holy cows frolicked, carefree, in the meadows of my attention. They got shot and turned into burgers like everyone else.
Then I went soft. Swaddled in the faux contentment of nicotine addiction, I began to see things from other people's points of view, even began displaying a modicum of sympathy for the powers that be. I know, I failed you, dear readers. I'm deeply ashamed.
Enough was enough. So I quit.
Patched-up, I ventured out in the world. I genuinely expected my bottled-up rage to erupt, volcano-like, once the nicotine stopper was removed. But, as my adventures showed, it didn't. The thin skin of the patch held back my slavering demons just enough to stop them from getting me into serious bother.
I've now opted to do without nicotine-doused security blankets and go it alone. (One must cut the apron strings at some stage, mustn't one?) It may come as some surprise, not least to me, but rather than snap straight back into my old bitter, sarcastic, cynical narkiness, I'm now relatively calm.
Apart from the obvious figures of despisement - boy racers; gardaí shooting minnows going 5 kms over the speed limit in dual carriageway buckets, while sharks are doing 150km/h down nearby boreens; able-bodied people who park in disabled spaces; people who think that just because the hazard button on their car works they can park wherever they like; people who think spending a few grand on a taxi licence makes them immune to traffic laws; junkies who push prams between trucks on Dublin's quays; cretins who turn without indicating, who don't turn after indicating or who leave their indicators on permanently; selfish caravaning morons who tootle down country roads oblivious to the 36 cars stuck behind them; people who believe owning a convertible automatically makes them attractive; people who can't fit a hatchback in a single car park space; gobshites who blabber on mobile phones as they drive; politicians who try to wash their hands of responsibility for road safety by blabbering about "driver attitudes"; people who call their children Jordan; herds of Italian/Chinese/Spanish/(insert stereotype here) students who congregate on pavements, forcing one into the road to get past them; motorists who think orange traffic lights mean speed up and bus drivers who stare at you like you've asked to borrow their sister when you demand a refund for the extra 15c you've given them because you only had €1.50 to pay for a €1.35 fare - I'm fairly chilled these days.
What's that you say? SUVs? I was trying not to mention them, but you had to bring them up, didn't you? Thanks. Thanks a lot.
Pass me that ashtray, would you? What? Don't be silly. Of course I'm not going to wallop you about the chops with it. Honest.