NV17 GUG — mark that name for hell,
A four-wheeled curse with a rust-flaked shell.
Rolling disgrace, you're a plague on the street,
Every turn that you take is a crime on repeat.
You drive like a villain that chaos designed,
With road rage for blood and no goddamn spine.
No skill, no shame, just pure desecration,
Your license itself is a public damnation.
Your brakes scream death, your tyres beg peace,
But you floor it like Satan just granted release.
Indicators dusty like your common sense,
Each mile that you drive is an act of offense.
You cut through lanes like a blade through flesh,
But it’s your own pride that you constantly wreck.
A ticking time bomb in a four-door hearse,
Every rev of your engine just makes things worse.
You don’t own the road — you're a blight, a disease,
A rolling mistake that pollutes every breeze.
If roads were a battlefield, you'd be first to fall,
NV17 GUG, you're the shame of us all.
Whoever’s behind the wheel of that van must think they’re the undisputed king of the asphalt, the Picasso of parking in absolute chaos. You didn’t just park, you committed a crime against common sense and decency. Were you aiming for the white lines and missed by an entire postcode? Because that’s the only explanation for the monstrosity you left behind.
It's like you saw a perfectly good space and thought, “Nah, I’m gonna treat this like a personal art installation—'Van in the Wild', blocking driveways, double yellow lines, and probably someone’s will to live. You’re not parked, mate, you’re abandoned, like a fridge in a lay-by. Do mirrors not exist in your universe? Or did you think your van had diplomatic immunity?
YS23HNN should be the new code for “Do not pass GO, do not collect £200, just get towed immediately.” Please, for the sake of humanity, get a tape measure, learn how big your van is, and maybe—just maybe—learn how to park without making the rest of us suffer.
Cut me off twice causing mass disruption to my day.