There was a time when a car was just… a car. Four wheels. An engine. A slight rattle you chose to ignore. You got in, turned the key, drove from A to B, and only really worried if something fell off mid-journey or started smoking ominously near the A-pillar.
But now? Cars have personalities. They beep, chirp, sulk, whine, flash, and display emotional instability through dashboard lights. Some even speak to you—not politely, but like you’ve personally wronged them.
My car, for example, is definitely passive-aggressive. It doesn’t say, “Your tyre pressure is low.” It says, “Your tyre pressure is low… again.” With an unspoken “but you won’t do anything about it, will you?” hovering silently in the air like a very judgy cloud.
The Rise of the Digital Mood Swing
Modern cars now come equipped with a full suite of emotions, carefully designed to be as alarming as possible. A red light doesn’t just mean danger—it means imminent catastrophe. Amber? That’s your car trying to be polite while suggesting you might explode if you don’t address the issue by tomorrow.
If my car were a person, it would sigh loudly when I start it, flash its service light passive-aggressively like a Victorian aunt hinting she hasn’t been visited in months, and say things like,
“Oh, we’re doing 71 in a 70 now, are we? Risky.”
It has beeped at me for:
- Driving too close to a leaf.
- Not buckling in a coat that was on the passenger seat.
- Locking it while walking away too slowly.
- Breathing in a way it didn’t like.
Parking Sensors: Designed to Induce Panic
Nothing says “fun” like reversing into a tight spot while your car starts screaming at you in tones usually reserved for nuclear alerts.
The beeps begin gently, almost flirtatiously—beep… beep…—before quickly escalating to a full-on sonic meltdown, implying you’re seconds away from destroying civilisation by grazing a bin. You slam the brakes. Get out. There’s a full six inches between you and any obstacle. But your car is still there, hysterical, like a dog that’s just seen a balloon.
I don’t need help parking. I need therapy afterwards.
Voice Assistance: The Disembodied Sarcasm of the 21st Century
Some cars talk now. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t apply to be in a relationship with my vehicle. And yet, here we are.
Mine has a voice assistant who sounds like she used to work in customer service and left because of burnout. She’ll repeat directions once, then go silent for 15 minutes, only to suddenly bark “TURN LEFT” while I’m already halfway through a roundabout, juggling gears and existential dread.
She has no idea where we are half the time. But she’s very sure that I missed the correct exit 12 miles ago, and she’ll quietly re-route me like a disappointed parent who’s decided to say nothing further.
The Dashboard Warning Light That Lies
There’s one light on my dashboard that comes on only when it’s raining and I’m late. It flashes an ambiguous symbol that could mean anything from “check engine” to “your car is now a blender.”
You open the manual, which simply says:
“This light may indicate an issue. Or not. If it persists, consult a garage. Or don’t. Up to you.”
So you Google it, which immediately convinces you that your fuel line is seconds away from igniting, and you will need a new car, a new identity, and possibly a new passport.
You switch the engine off and on again. The light disappears. Crisis averted. Until next week.
Seatbelt Warning: The Car that Cries Wolf
Let’s talk about the seatbelt alarm, which seems to think everything is a person.
Your bag? Apparently a small, rebellious toddler. A coat? Definitely an unrestrained adult, probably holding scissors. A carton of milk? A reckless, unbuckled thrill-seeker.
The car loses its mind every time I put anything heavier than a sandwich on the passenger seat. A siren wails, warning me that something must be strapped in, or we’ll all die.
It would be easier if the car just said, “Secure your quiche, or face the consequences.”
Is It Just Me? (Probably Not)
I asked a friend if his car does the same.
“It reminds me to take breaks on long journeys,” he said. “Like a concerned mother.”
“How long is the journey?” I asked.
“Sixteen minutes.”
I Miss My Old Car, and It Was Actively Trying to Kill Me
My last car was a 2003 Ford that only beeped if it was literally on fire. The steering wheel was more of a suggestion than a command, and the air con consisted of opening the window slightly and hoping for the best.
But it never judged me. It never passive-aggressively flashed lights. It never scolded me for driving past a leaf too enthusiastically.
Modern cars are not just machines—they’re colleagues. Disgruntled ones. With control issues.
All I wanted was a vehicle that takes me places.
Instead, I’ve got one that thinks it’s my life coach.
A very smug, sulking, beeping life coach.
And I swear it’s started sighing when I put on my seatbelt.
James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.
Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.
A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.
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