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Hubcaps of the UK

Pothole Stories in the United Kingdom

Muir of Ord

It was supposed to be a nice weekend in the Highlands. A round of golf, then on to the B&B. It didn’t quite work out that way. Instead of soaking in a B&B bathtub, he drove into a pothole the size of a bathtub. It’s understandable how I was left for dead. The damage was major. I was chucked quite a distance. Rolled deep into the grass. Always wanted to see the Highlands. But not like this.


The trout fishery is nice. Wish I’d made it. Parts of that road are diabolical. They’ve been patching it up. That doesn’t help me. My driver was finally going to show his wife how to cast a fly. Instead, I was cast from the car. Crashing into that pothole was jarring. It was certainly deep enough for fishing in. They didn’t stop. I’ve been left here to wither in cow country.


It was a pizza delivery. I think the pizza made it to its destination. Someone at the school of motoring wanted it. Is that a paradox? Or that I was thrown off the vehicle after hitting a pothole in a new town named for a famous roadway engineer? Maybe I’ve thought about this too much. Lying here at the side of Avenue, I’ve had time. The lad driving the car was knackered from working two jobs. I suspect he will not be replacing me.


The weather was beastly. More potholes opened up. They were of biblical proportions. At the side of the bypass, a man was already changing a tyre when I was flung from the car. At least that gent still had his wheel cover. I’m a goner. I don’t know how the rest of the car fared. It kept going as I rolled to the kerb. So it goes.


Maybe if the obscene art had already been there, he would have seen the pothole and I’d still be on the car. But the Rembrandt with the spray paint didn’t come until long after I was spinning across the roadway. Tragic, really. Lonely hubcaps scattered around the roadside. In the channel. Near the pavement. In someone’s garden. Mayhem. Why does it take a news photo of crude graffiti artist for anything to be done about it? Either way, for me and the rest of us along the roadway here, too little, too late.


Who’d have thought it possible to lose the grip on the wheel at such a moderate speed? But the holes are many, approaching countless. And it all adds up when you’re driving across an epic, rock-hard swiss cheese. It was a dark and moonless night when it all went bad. She probably didn’t want to drive through that hole. But coming across that cyclist in the dark was frightful. She swerved. Hit just right. I popped off. End of story. End of me.


It’s a single carriageway, and one of the most dangerous roads in the country. It’s a miracle that the only victim here was me. Driving along that stretch of road, all it takes is a bit of inattention and bam, pop, a pothole takes another wheel cover. Is it ironic that there’s an asphalt plant along the road?


He’s just a pensioner, heading to the village post office for stamps. The car was no match for that infamous B284. Usually, he can drive around the potholes with ease. But this time, oncoming traffic wouldn’t allow it. He had to take the pothole. Me in the road. Blocking traffic and waiting for the motor club. This isn’t the kind of thing a pensioner needs.


Once a week, she’d head for that trendy foodie market. Last week, the potholes had other ideas. Ka-blam! She hit the hole. The tyre went flat. I popped off, rolled along the macadam, hopped the kerb, and came to a stop, lying amongst some trees. That was one expensive trip to the grocer.


Every day, to and from work, he was able to manoeuvre around those large potholes on the Motorway near the airport. It always worked—until the day it didn’t. The recovery truck had to take him away. They missed me, lying in the grass.


A ride-share along Oxford Street. Destination? The transport museum. There’s irony for you. The pothole was deep, and filled with water. I popped off, rolled to the channel and laid there. Don’t know if there was any damage to the car. But he was driving ‘cuz he needed the cash. Poor bloke.


On the road into the city centre, we were heading to the stadium for the big match. Never saw the pothole coming. Been lying at the roadside for a week. Don’t even know if United won. I know only that I lost.

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