“Don’t hog the middle lane,” beseeched motorway signs all over the UK last weekend, at least on the sections of the M1, M42, M5 and M40 I had the pleasure of using.
Lane discipline is a particular thing for particular people. I’m most definitely one of those people. I’ll keep to the left-hand lane so assiduously that if it was a contest I’d undoubtedly be in contention for the title. Proceeding along a quiet motorway at a stately 70mph, I will move into the middle lane only to overtake, before neatly slotting back into the left-hand lane. For this is the lane of the worthy, the disciplined, the considerate. It is the lane of the good.
Perhaps, during my time in the middle lane, I will notice another vehicle ahead in the left lane that I will also soon have cause to overtake. If this good soul is hundreds of metres away, I will, of course, return to the left lane, even though I know I will soon have to move out of it again in order to go past. Even if this slower vehicle is nearer, I will, with the stickling devotion of a true believer, return to the left lane, however briefly. In fact, to be honest, even if there’s not much more than a car’s length between those I’m overtaking, I will try to slot back in there for what will be the most fleeting of moments. And here’s the thing: I will do all this even if there is nobody, but nobody, behind me in the middle lane wanting to get past.
This is virtue-signalling of the very barmiest order because – apart from the possibly alarmed drivers of the two vehicles I’m overtaking – I’m in effect signalling my virtue to no one at all. If there’s no one in my rear view mirror to appreciate the gesture, it can only be between me and my God. Does a tree falling in a forest make a noise if there’s no one within earshot? Of course it does.
Such piety is never a good look. Like anybody who considers themself to be without sin, I find it quite impossible to forgive the sinner. If I’m motoring worthily in the left lane and come across someone in the middle lane overtaking no one at all, the simmering cauldron of righteous indignation inside me starts to bubble towards boiling point. My fury threatens to spiral out of control. “Ooh,” as the comedian Stu Francis used to put it. “I could crush a grape.”
Suppressing my rage into a death-like stillness as I close in on this embodiment of evil, I stick fast to the left lane of virtue. I do so in the spirit of generosity, giving this sinner a last chance to mend their ways and get into the correct bloody lane. They rarely do – which is a great joy to me, to be honest, as I can then execute the most satisfying manoeuvre in the repertoire of every sinless motorist.
Seeking to instil shame, nothing less, I move into the middle lane behind them, pause for a quick harrumph, and then move into the fast lane to overtake them. As I do so, I shake my head in derision. If the dog’s in the back, he shakes his head too. And then in one majestic sweep, cutting through the thin air of the moral high ground, I pass in front of them and return to the slow lane. Frequently, chastened, they sheepishly fall into place behind me, in which case I nod to indicate my forgiveness and their absolution. If they do not do so, later, when I’ve calmed down, I will pray for their souls.
Once, on the M40 heading north, I was engaged in this merry dance of the road with my mum in the passenger seat. “What on earth are you moving about like this for?” she demanded, alarmed. “This is dangerous.” She had a point.
