An incompetent cretin with a screwdriver needs a firm lesson in the code of the street, writes Kilian Doyle
THERE'S A great scene in Pulp Fictionin which John Travolta's character, Vincent Vega, discusses the recent vandalism of his car with his heroin supplier Lance.
Obviously, being a Quentin Tarantino movie, I can't quote the florid dialogue verbatim. So here's a coded version of their chat: "What's more Tarantino than quenting with a man's automobile? I mean, don't quent with another man's vehicle," says Vincent.
"You don't do it," nods Lance.
"It's just against the rules," opines Vincent.
Both decide that anyone caught carrying out such a heinous act needs to be quenting killed. No trial, no jury, straight to execution. The irony of this, coming from a ruthless hitman and a smack dealer, is not lost on me. But I'm inclined to agree with them.
See, some vile, pus-headed little onanist has had a go at my 18-year-old BMW estate. Taking these things personally, as I do, I feel deeply violated.
One morning last week, I came out of my house and spied the driver's door-lock had been mangled with a screwdriver.
Looking into the car - expecting to see an empty hole where my fabulously tacky €79 stereo used to be - I realised it had been attacked by a cretin. He hadn't even managed to get in. A battered old motor with all the security features of a paper bag, and he'd fumbled it.
Now, I know Homer is an ancient yoke with more dings than the Titanic. His paint job is completely shot, his alloys look like someone had a go at them with a belt sander and he has all the fancy modern doodahs of a bench.
But I care not a whit for such things. I love him, warts and all. Not least because - despite his aesthetic failings - Homer is mechanically perfect and goes like stink.
So to me, he's priceless (unless you want to offer me €4,000 for him, in which case the mouldy old shed is yours).
Do you know what the real kick in the groin for me was? Not the hassle, not the expense. It was that the dude who did it was obviously such a pathetic, bungling amateur.
I feel insulted. Homer deserves better. It'd almost make me proud if the car were whisked off by a team of top professionals. That would at least have demonstrated he was still desirable. But no, I get targeted by a bum-fluffed halfwit who is so hamfisted his mother probably still ties his shoelaces for him. Grr.
I reported it to gardaí, who reacted with the urgency of a stalactite. It was as if I'd just told them a leaf had fallen on my head outside. "What do you want us to do about it?" the bored-looking garda behind the counter said.
I felt like asking her to loan me a loaded Uzi and the names and addresses of every known scumbag within a 100km radius.
But I resisted. I shrugged my shoulders and turned on my heel instead. "We'll register your details here for the insurance company," she told the back of my head as I slouched off.
Yeah, right. 'Tis well we both knew I'd not be bothering any claims assessors over a busted lock. The replacement cost is less than my excess, not to mention the no-claims bonus dangling overhead. My insurance company has me over a barrel over the cost of a barrel lock.
Anyway, next time someone bothers Homer, I'll be ready. Much as I'd like to picture myself lopping his head off with a machete, it's not in my nature. I'm about as violent as a spring lamb. Instead, I'll probably just invite him in, pour him an alcopop and force him to watch Pulp Fiction.
He needs to learn a lesson: You don't quent with another man's vehicle. It's just against the rules.