Behind the Wheel

Contributing to a No Ripcord 'Top 100 Debut Albums' feature, I wrote a short piece about Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures (I’m sure it’s not a major spoiler that it features) and commented that it was a great album to soundtrack driving around a city very late at night.

Driving just for the sake of it is a dying pastime, and for good reason. Petrol prices aren't going to stop rising and the death of the motorcar as we know it surely can’t be far away. It won’t be until a new method of shifting lumps of metal and plastic at a decent speed is discovered that we’ll be able to just head out for a drive.

Thinking of this not only reminded me how much I miss both my car (sob) and driving (cursed health issues), but also how much I used to like going out at 3am for a spin. Bouts of insomnia do have some good points.

Manchester is a particularly good city for this kind of thing. Though extensive renovation and redesign has taken a lot of the grime out of the city, there’s still enough bleak greyness in the flyovers to create a certain atmosphere as you speed through with Shadowplay in the background. Driving down an empty motorway can have a similar effect - it’s almost like you’re living in the front cover of the Comsat Angels’ Waiting For a Miracle album. Hypnotic to the point you need to constantly be aware of what you’re doing and not slip into some kind of trance state.

In contrast, driving out in the countryside on a sunny day offers a totally different experience, though no less pleasing. You swap the Chameleons for Teenage Fanclub, open the windows and put your shades on, if you’re feeling brave. I found the Peak District to be most enjoyable for moments like these, especially when you get off the main roads. There’s something exciting about making it round a corner when one mistake can send you shooting down a somewhat major drop.

But of course, there’s always the bigger risk that you get stuck behind some old git toddling along at 30mph in some piece of crap. “Flat Cap Brigade” was what my dad always called them, and the only plus point is getting a cheap laugh from spotting the inevitable tartan blanket in the back when you finally get past.

As a 17-year-old in West Cumbria, getting a driving license was a must, if only to enable you to get out of town to more exciting vistas. Even though the only wheels I had access to were my mother’s Vauxhall Corsa, it still meant I could go tear-arsing round the numerous country back roads only minutes from home.

I think this side of me can only have been borne from playing games like Out Run when I was an impressionable youth. The image of motoring along in a Ferrari with the ocean by your side remains one I want to live out before my time is up, though I’m a bit flexible on the type of car. I mean, I’d settle for a Porsche 911 or a Lamborghini.