Scum of the Earth (or: Hit and Run)

My parents, being from Cornwall, thought that a Bank Holiday Monday at 3pm was the perfect time to visit IKEA.

Their nearest IKEA is in Bristol, a fair old 2 hour trek from where they live, so a visit is still very much a novelty and as the heavens were all set to open again (because, of course, two weeks of constant rain just hasn't been quite enough, even though a good week ago we were easily achieving one of the wettest Mays on record) they thought it might be, well, not exactly fun but something to do that didn't involve getting incredibly wet (which even to me, who shudders at the mere thought of such an outing, was more appealing at that moment in time).

So I reluctantly negotiated a fairly unforgiving roundabout off the M62 (cutting someone up and terrifying my mum in the process) and joined the masses inching their way towards the signs pointing towards the warehouse that we assumed was somewhere in the vague distance, in pursuit of a television table.

They quickly realised their error. The traffic was making no real effort in productivity and we sat in a queue for another queue that we presumed led to a carpark, perhaps.

I began to tingle with fear.

Shopping itself used to fill me with irrational dread and I would break out into a hot sweat at the mere hint of a possible mention of the word. But since living with my SP I have developed a rather healthy/unhealthy obsession with the likes of supermarket and other such cheap clothing outlets, and I even mentioned off my own back on Friday that I wanted, not needed, wanted, to go into the centre of Leeds and go shoe shopping because TK Maxx just wasn't cutting it in that department (my disclaimer remains that I was half cut and I'd walked through the city when all the shops were closed so it seemed not quite so terrifying).

Despite having conquered my fear to an acceptable degree in order that I don't actually have to rely on people buying me clothes for birthdays and Christmas or lending me clothes that I can hold on to for as long as is comfortably possible (and usually a bit longer than that if I'm honest), I am still engulfed with terror when other members of the public are added to the equation in any volume.

Queuing to pay, once I have tried on an item, I will just about negotiate, if said item is deemed worthy of such time consumption. Queuing to try an item of clothing on is usually regarded as totally unacceptable (then I will usually debate on the impulse purchase, never a good idea for someone of 5'2", or dump all the clothes and rush out, in need of a large coffee to fuel my already fraying nerves).

And queuing to queue to get into a carpark: well, that I'd never experienced before. Because I'd never been so stupid enough to entertain the notion of visiting IKEA at 3pm on a Bank Holiday.

So, after a small debate on the merits of heading IKEAwards and bailing, I broke free from the QueueOfFear and turned around to head as far away from there as feasibly possible on a quarter of a tank of petrol.

In this genius decision, we ended up in the same queue for the very same reasonably priced Swedish furnishings store, just this time heading the other way. We inched miserably along, wishing of a happier place.

Then: We watched a white Astra, complete with Ugly Chav driver and gold hooped earring Chavette as standard, drive from the pub on our left, through the queue of traffic, and straight into the rear passenger door of a car in the filter lane next to us.

And then drive off.

Now this wasn't the sort of bump that you'd accidentally miss. This was a fair old whack. It was a fairly hefty impact that certainly left the victim with a sizeable dent in the side of his car and a healthy mechanic's bill to match.

I saw Ugly Chav's face Ugly Face on impact. I saw the easily preventable accident occur. His eyes widened, his Chavette girl's mouth fall open. And I saw the fucker drive off, at speed.

The stunned victim, a bloke in his late 40's I'm guessing (although the accuracy of that assumption should be treated with a little caution) stayed still for a while, I presume in shock. I beeped my horn furiously and put my hazards on trying to attract his attention, as my mum had remembered his number plate, but our efforts to attract his attention were in vain as eventually he pulled a u'ey and drove, presumably, after him (Rover horns sound not so much like 'Hia, I'm here!' more like 'Come here you little bastard and I'll give you what's coming to you' so I'm not entirely surprised he decided against acknowledging our existence).

We drove forwards eventually, all a little in shock.

The Ugly Chav, I assume, from his exit from the pub and the hasty getaway from his hit and run, had been drinking. If that was the case, it is clear that he was not going to hang around and exchange insurance details and offer some sort of apologise for the unnecessary damage he had caused from his lack of concentration. His crime was committed in front of a good 10 to 15 cars, all probably as shocked and confused as us (although this sort of thing really doesn't tend to happen in Cornwall; if you hit a tractor, you'll bloody know about it but they probably won't even notice, while a sheep will do a fair amount of damage to your bonnet but they tend to not be covered by valid insurance policies). I swore rather violently (words that even I wouldn't usually say in front of my mum) as we watched the 'stupid idiot' (or a more colourful phrase to that effect) drive off, unaware that we might have held the key to a valid insurance claim.

We debated what to do, whether to call the police and hand in the registration number, but we didn't really know where to report it or what to say. Enraged, as a result I drove through a red light (my mum only gently reminded me as opposed to her usual gripping onto the side of the car and shouting in panicked tones, so it was obvious she was aware of just how stressed I was).

In the end: we did nothing. Although if that man, who I've just insulted in insinuating that he may have been a 'stupid idiot', reads my blog: I've got Ugly Chav's reg and I'm willing to bring him down if you are.

I was, and remain, absolutely appalled and incredibly disappointed. I wonder, had it been someone of a more respectable social group than Chav, would they have stopped? Such behaviour certainly isn't exclusive of specific social groups and often the most awful behaviour results from who would normally be deemed as 'above' such actions.

But in this instance unfortunately he lived up to and beyond the stereotype, and has thus won the not exactly coveted title of Scum of the Earth.