One day quite soon someone at a petrol pump is going to get a tyre iron wrapped around their head. It will almost certainly be the middle-aged male driver of a Land Rover Discovery — a flatulent showboating car driven almost exclusively by smug pigs — while he is busy filling up his 16 jerry cans with unleaded. It will take place in a city — there’s still quite a bit of petrol left in our towns, because townsfolk are not sociopaths — and the assailant will be a Ukip-voting working-class man in his early thirties called ‘Matt’. With any luck, the jury will acquit.
I do not know (and nor does anyone else, seemingly) the extent to which this current fuel crisis has been occasioned by a shortage of tanker drivers and hence fuel, or by the owner of the Land Rover Discovery and his idiot friends, who 18 months ago were pillaging Morrisons for every last roll of bog paper, bottle of hand sanitiser and — mysteriously — tinned tomatoes.
