It’s just past 10 at night. You’re driving the shitty work car home from a week long business trip in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Darkness all around, sans your high beam, and the white line fever that’s taken its hold.
You fight back with you best rendition of Bieber’s “Baby” yet. Suddenly, you hear a bang followed by thump, thump, thump (you’ve got a flat tyre in case my attempt at onomatopoeia didn’t bedazzle you).
“No worries,” you tell yourself. “I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.”
You pop the boot… and find the spare tyre is more deflated than your self esteem the time that 19 year old drop dead gorgeous blonde rejected you.
You grab your phone to call roadside assist…but the battery’s dead. You search the car frantically for your charger but to no avail. You must’ve left it in the motel room.
You’re miles from the nearest gas station.
The deathly silence is palatable.
You start to panic. Your mind is working over-time. You make an executive decision: “I’d rather risk driving on a limp tyre than being stranded in the middle of no-where.” It’s the same philosophy you hold true in your career and sex life, so it’s bound to work.
You take out the spare… but you can’t find the jack anywhere.
“That’s right,” you remember. “I lent it to Dave…asshole never returned it!”
“What now?” you ask yourself. “I’m not walking to the gas station. It’s fucking miles away.”
But you know you have to. The temperature’s dropping, and you don’t have any blankets or warm clothes, and no means of starting a camp fire.
Half an hour in and you find out first hand why dress shoes and long distance walking are strange bed- fellows – after an hour you’re ready to cut off your feet.
Two hours in and you’ve lost all feeling from the waist down.
It starts pissing down…the kind of heavy rain farmer’s get hard over. Within seconds you’re soaked to the bone.
Three hours in and you’re close to passing out from the excruciating pain and sheer exhaustion.
Then you see it.
A set of headlights in the distance.
As the lights get closer you notice it’s a truckie.
“This guy will give me a lift for sure.”
You crawl as fast as you can to the middle of the road and muster up enough strength to wave him down.
But he’s dozing in and out and doesn’t see you until the last second. He slams on the brakes…but it’s too late.
Of course this would never have happened if you’d taken our advice and stocked your car with the following 23 essential items.
Remember: He who fails to plan, plans to fail.
23 Things Every Man Needs In His Car
- Torch with spare batteries
- Blankets and pillows
- Bottles of clean drinking water
- Protein bars/non-perishable food stuffs
- First aid kit
- Comfortable shoes – e.g runners
- Portable car battery charger/jumper leads
- Jack & wheel brace
- Spare tyre (inflated to regulated pressure)
- Tyre gauge
- Foam tyre sealant
- Fire extinguisher
- Jerry can
- Three reflective warning signals
- Spare phone charger/portable smart phone adapter if you own a car older than your grandmother
- Duct tape/WD-40
- Change of warm clothes
- Swiss army knife
- A good book/favourite ‘nudie’ magazine
- Condoms – just in case a hot babe rescues your sorry ass or you see her hitchhiking in a string bikini
Click here to download and print the PDF version of the checklist
If I’ve overlooked anything in the checklist please feel free to add in the comments below.
Cari saluti da Melbourne! And as always, thanks for reading.