No Direction Home

For the typical Alpha Male, there are several unwritten commandments. Specifically, if you're a male driver, there's one commandment you have to adhere to: never admit you're lost.

"No, no, it's around here somewhere." That's the first warning sign: a denial that our driver hasn't got a clue where he's going. "I know this road like the back of my hand," usually follows. So if he's wearing driving gloves or he's Abu Hamza, you know you're in trouble (still, you'd have to be brave travelling in a vehicle with Abu Hamza at the helm, wouldn't you?)

The voice of reason is provided by the wife / girlfriend / significant other: "Why don't you ask somebody for directions?" Yeah, right. He'd sooner guillotine his own manhood with the electric window than ask for directions, particularly if it's from another man. I recall one instance in Cheltenham, when an elderly man stopped, wound down his window, and bellowed the curt inquiry: "Oxford!" Evidently only asking under extreme duress from his partner in the passenger seat, he felt adding any more syllables might comprise his masculinity . "That way," I replied, stunned, not quite sure which direction Oxford lay in.

Of course, there are some who will never, ever ask. Take the Competitive Dad character in 'The Fast Show,' who, when getting lost in Germany, relents responsibility to his son to ask directions of a passer-by. He then proceeds to berate the passer-by for his English pronunciation: "It's this road, not zis road!" Therein lies the hidden benefit of asking a stranger, particularly a foreign one: they become an easy scape goat when our driver still ends up lost. Along with the poor partner in the passenger seat, who, despite doing a sterling job as navigator, bears the brunt of our driver's fury: "Are you sure you're not holding that map upside down?"