THE END
The trouble with “The End” is I don’t know where to start. Well, there you have it. My head’s starting to hurt thinking of cars past and present that have made my life more fun. The characters I’ve met, from my first days at work and before. What about Stevie Chance, at Parsons, who described fast cars as going “like shit off a shiny shovel” and the braking as “sticking like shit to a blanket”? Great lads.
I’ve talked about my early years, living on a council estate, the projects. We weren’t poor, but the first time I tasted meat was when I bit my tongue. Luck always plays a part in life; good judgment comes with experience. Religion comes and goes, depending on age or thinking about what comes next.
I’m a lucky lad. I’ve never believed in God as such, but if there has to be one, then let it be the one who looked after me. He’s cool. I’m sure he can’t be the same one that people pray to in war; he surely can’t be the one who tells people to kill anyone or anything in their way; and he can’t be the one that some mad-eyed Southern preacher says keeps talking to him. Mine’s just mine, inside my car with me.
Ah! I get it. So that’s what that fella Jesus was talking about.