I went for my driving license in January 1980.
First I was given a book of road rules and told to learn them. "Here. Book. Read." I then had to pass a written test based on those rules.
Subsequent to that I needed to pass a practical test called the Ordeal By Hangover in which I was to demonstrate my appalling lack of skills to a very large policeman at the Karratha RTA office.
If I pulled enough wool over the policeman's eyes and somehow passed the test I was then granted a Provisional License wherein I was permitted to become a potential traffic hazard on the Western Australian roads.
Personal driving abilities aside, I knew I'd been granted that piece of paper under the proviso that I be a responsible, law-abiding driver.
What it didn't mean was that I could now go out and get shit-faced on forty beers, jump in my car, drive at 150kph down the wrong side of the road, brandish a bottle of vodka in one hand and a Camberwell Carrot in the other, and steering with my knees, gleefully run down badly dressed pedestrians carrying babies.
During the ensuing 20 some years I've been fined for speeding, running red lights and once lost my license for drink driving. Each time I was pinged I wore it because I knew I'd done wrong.
What I didn't do was tell the local judiciary that it was impossible for me to break the rules because I suffered from that rare genetic condition known as a Double Helix with Half Pike and Twist, then call the cops racist pigs intent on depriving me of my right to operate an automobile.
There's a point here somewhere, oh yeah, first you learn the rules, then you apply the rules. If you don't wanna play by the rules, there'll be trouble!
I'm lookin' at YOU! Don't come back!
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