Plastic Fantastic

I should really be writing a grown up piece on the “relevance of the twice-yearly number plate change to the calenderization of the UK retail car market”, but I don’t have much to say other than we all love a car with the latest plate on it; it appeals to our in-built desire to keep up with the Joneses, so let’s get over it. 

So having covered that off, I’m going to talk about my dirty little secret instead. I sport a personalised number plate on my otherwise sober choice of transport. I have a carefully rehearsed excuse for this transgression in the shape of a burglary involving my briefcase on the night before an MOT. You’ve guessed it no brief case, no V5, no MOT and no chance of “my” car not ending being used in every drive-by slaying in South West London.

So, for the price of a reasonable curry for four, I got me my very own cut-price entry to the murky world of the “cherished” plate. Being fundamentally tighter than a boy band’s tee shirt collection, it has moved with me from car to car. I just cannot justify letting it go, it’s not worn out, it still works and most importantly I paid for it…

There it is, right out in the open; I should by rights be cast into the wilderness and told not to return until I have repented for my sins. The case against me is proven beyond reasonable doubt isn’t it?

Well before we turn to the prosecution for the closing address, indulge me for a little longer if you will, because there is new evidence I would like to bring before the International Court of Automotive taste and decency.

Here goes: The personal plate is a real-time social commentary captured in purest plastic. It says more about who we are than we may care to acknowledge. Think of it as a road-born punctuation mark to break up the unending paragraph of automotive conformity and you’ll see where I am coming from.

Who reading this can’t help but notice that private plate in front and use it to relieve the rush-hour boredom, the more banal, brief or obscure the better?