Settle in for the festive tale of my (literal) Christmas car crash
Ho ho ho, it’s the most ridiculous time of the year.
Gather round, fellow Christmas Grinches, for I have a merry tale to tell – a frosty festive fuck-up that will reassure you that this is indeed the most ridiculous time of the year. Let’s begin.
One dark winter’s night…
On Boxing Day 2017, the weather outside was frightful… and I was involved in a five-car pile-up on the A299, otherwise known as Accident Avenue/Racer’s Ruin/Highway to Hell/Calamity Crescent/Pile-up Pathway, etc. This road connecting London to Thanet has no lights, no speed cameras and gives zero fucks. To that end, it is infamous for crashes. I once saw a van on the other side of the carriageway, facing in the wrong direction, stuck in the trees. Perched in the branches like a bird.
Six days before my fateful crash, I had bought myself a second-hand Ford Fiesta. This car represented freedom, independence, and doing something solely for myself for the first time in a very long time after one of the most traumatic years of my life (that’s a story for another time). It was a signal to the universe that 2018 was going to be different. That I was going to be different.
I loved that car immediately. It was magic: blacked-out windows, alloys, and all the fancy tech. In the small period of time that it was mine, I drove it everywhere, screaming along to Black Sabbath, raging along to Rage, dancing along to DJ Luck & MC Neat. I explored, I pootled, I raced, I escaped.
And then, on Boxing Day, driving home from Christmas, festive fate intervened as soon as I hit the A299.
All I wanted for Christmas was to drive…
I have always loved driving. It is one of my favourite pastimes. It ticks all of my anti-angst boxes:
You’re unavailable. Even if your car is super fancy and you can make calls and respond to messages via the robot voice living in the dashboard, people still accept that you are busy if “you are driving”. In today’s 24/7, reply immediately culture, I need that. (It’s much like smoking in this way, another ‘clock out of situations with no ramifications’ hobby that I have written about.)
You’re doing something. You’re getting from A to B. Even if you’re driving around in circles you’re still driving. That appeases my feeling-guilty-for-not-constantly-achieving mindset.
You’re in your own private bubble. You can sing, shout, cry, swear, whoop, eat, scratch, fart, or just stare gormlessly at the unfolding tarmac before you without being judged.
Driving is fun, liberating and exciting. You’re in total control and can go anywhere you want, unrestricted by schedules and ticket prices and strangers on public transport breathing or thrusting in your face.
It’s mindful. You’re thinking about the arsehole roaring up your boot even though you’re in the slow lane. You’re thinking about the other arsehole mooching along in the middle-lane even though the slow lane is free. You’re thinking about what tune you’re going to play next. You’re thinking about how beautiful the sunset is, how loud that plane is, wondering what the funky smell outside is.
God, I love driving.
But on that particular night…
Brake lights started illuminating the darkness ahead of me. “Here we go,” I thought, slowing down, putting on my hazards, and pulling up to a stop in the fast lane behind the car in front.
And then I headbutted the steering wheel.
Shunted violently from behind, my car started moving on its own. Luckily, the vehicle in front had already moved off, the previous prang resolved, so I didn’t hit it, but, looking out of my side window, I was surprised to see a car beside me even though I was in the inside lane. It was essentially driving through my car, wedging itself between me and the central barrier, caving my door in and crushing my feet in the footwell.
The scene in the rearview mirror looked like a warzone. Glass, smoke and pieces of cars littering the carriageway, horns blaring.
Turns out, an older gentleman had simply neglected to stop, ploughing into the car behind me at about 40mph (around 65 km/h) and then spinning out to hit two other cars in the outside lane. I later learned from police that the man directly behind me had once taken a dangerous-driving awareness course and, seeing the car coming up at speed behind him, had turned his wheel to avoid hitting me head-on, limiting the impact by driving up my side instead. They said he may have saved my life.
When it appeared as if the madness had stopped, someone opened my passenger door and helped me to climb out of wreckage. They gave me a chocolate ‘for the shock’, told me they were a doctor from a few rows back, and checked me over. I said I was fine, fine, fine. Compared to everyone else (the man who caused the accident and his wife both looked dead), I thought the fact that I’d only hit my head, crushed my foot and snapped my wrists on the steering wheel was small fry (a decision that came to bite me in the bum later).
All I want for Christmas…
I took pics of the damage, the police and ambulances showed up, and everyone involved was breathalysed, with all of us coming back clear (a Christmas miracle). I called a number I had for roadside assistance and 15 minutes later, a monstrous HOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKK! ripped through the air, sounding like a big-boy ship bearing down upon a wave. The traffic parted like the Red Sea and an absolutely enormous truck landed next to me and my newly-broken Batmobile (yep, that’s what I’d called my car) ready to spirit us away.
Probably the most surreal part of this completely batshit situation was finding myself in the rescue truck’s cab munching through a tin of Quality Street the driver had given me while listening to Christmas tunes on the stereo and staring dumbfounded at the gyrating Santa toy on the dashboard.
Wait. Wtf just happened?
My beloved car was a write-off and I discovered that I’d actually fractured my wrist and my ankle, (I’d have to have physio on both for a year). Meanwhile, I was given a shiny courtesy car to use while waiting for the insurance payout to clear (which ended up taking two years and the threat of a court summons for me to receive).
The guy who caused the crash survived, as well as his wife, thank goodness, and was charged with reckless endangerment. The mystery being though, that as he was neither drunk nor asleep, and also hadn’t had any kind of medical emergency, no one knew why he didn’t stop.
So… what’s the point of this entirely depressing and altogether un-seasonal story? Glad you asked. Don’t worry, I’m getting there.
I have always struggled with Christmas. I find it incredibly difficult for various reasons. But 2017’s version was meant to represent a change and, to that end, I invested a lot of time and energy into trying to make it good – in trying to be good. Yet, despite every effort, the emblem of my fresh start was literally wiped off the road and I couldn’t get over the symbolism of it. That car, as mad as it may sound, represented a different direction my life was about to take. It was the first big thing I had bought solely for myself and purely for the joy of it in over a decade. It was a sign that I believed maybe I did deserve good things. That maybe I wasn’t a shitty person who, for reasons I won’t go into here, only deserved guilt, shame and self-reprobation.
And I fucking loved it. I loved that car so fucking much and was so proud of myself for having bought it that even writing about it now makes me well up with tears. Does that sound ludicrous? I hope not. I hope it resonates with anyone who struggles to think themselves worthy of nice things. I had finally convinced myself that I was worthy of something nice and six days later that symbol of worthiness was crushed like a bug in a completely random accident that I had absolutely no control over.
I couldn’t stop seeing it as a sign from the universe that I was being punished. That I had been arrogant and ridiculous to think I deserved anything else. And, on top of all that, it happened at Christmas! One of the most difficult times of year for so many of us. A big fat flip-o-the-bird from karma.
This can go one of two ways
It was an out-of-the-blue text message that stopped me from falling headfirst into the pit of emotional horror that I was tiptoeing around. A friend, who never really sent me messages, happened to send me the below when I was feeling particularly low:
I get it. But the car wasn’t what gave you freedom or independence. YOU GAVE IT TO YOURSELF when you chose to buy it. You can decide how to take this: you can see it as a sign that you should stay in your box OR you can see it as a hilarious and fitting end to an insane year and pick yourself up, dust yourself off and carry the fuck on.
And she was right. The fact that one of the worst years of my life had ended in a spectacular crash that was so dramatic it made the news was actually entirely fitting. Like the end of a film where someone says, “Come on, how bad could it be?” and there’s a final shot of fire and smoke drifting into the atmosphere before the credits roll. But what happens after that? How was I going to let this play out? I could once again make a choice.
I think we can invest things, events, milestones, fate, chance and other people with so much responsibility for our own happiness and success – especially at this time of year – that it’s easy not to take responsibility for our own choices, both good and bad. When the end of year round-ups start on social media and everyone’s posting about how much they’ve objectively achieved, please don’t compare yourself to them. Your biggest achievement could have been buying something nice for yourself, even if it then got destroyed in a freak accident. The fact you made the choice to do it in the first place was brave. The fact you fought all those thoughts about unworthiness, missed chances, and guilt and shame is worth a million social media round-ups.
And that is, finally, what this piece is about: giving yourself credit for making brave choices, whatever the result. And also that you might message someone randomly, just to check in, and it could change their life. Please always send those messages. I still have the message my friend sent me. I don’t think she has any idea what impact it had, but she does subscribe to this newsletter, so, if you’re reading this, I hope it rings a vague bell because trust me, I will never forget it. Thank you.
Just One More Thing…
A few weeks after the crash, I bought myself a brand-new version of the exact same car that had been written off.
I upgraded, bitch.
I felt this one! My chin was quivering by the end. Thanks for your words this whole year, Jo! Here's to another year filled with all sorts of emotions!