Silence reigns supreme when you lose the sound of your horn

A Different View with Dave O’Connell

Now that it’s back in perfect working order, it’s safe to reveal that I recently spent some time without a horn in my car – and, without wishing to suggest the sort of innuendo you find on a saucy seaside postcard, this was an enlightening experience on a number of fronts.

First off let’s acknowledge the danger of having no car horn in terms of road safety. Never mind that it’s a legal requirement, it is also an essential tool to have at your disposal as a way of warning someone not to walk out in front of you.

But mostly the car horn is a means a communication on the part of angry drivers – and I speak from personal experience. It’s a tool to allow you, the driver, to enforce the rules of the road as you interpret them . . .even though nobody asked you to.

This means it can be deployed as an admonishment to anyone who dares to edge out in front of you on your merry way. It also works to deter people from crossing the road or cyclists from weaving in and out between cars, static or moving.

In essence, it allows you to patrol and control the streets without leaving the comfort of the driver’s seat.

Angry drivers will blast the horn at persons unknown to them, in a manner they wouldn’t dream of otherwise – because they’re behind the safety of glass on a vehicle that itself can move at pace when needs must.

Of course, you must remember to keep those windows shut to avoid a Jamie Carragher greeting coming your way on the wind – but other than that, you couldn’t be more secure.

I first noticed that I’d mislaid my horn on the way into work one evening as I crossed the Salmon Weir Bridge – only to encounter a car coming in the opposite direction, attempting to edge out to make a right turn at Galway Cathedral.

The obvious way of deterring this practice was to let rip with a quick blast of the car horn – but on that occasion I discovered it was ominously unresponsive.

There was a small, weak clicking sound which appeared to be emanating from somewhere inside the glove compartment – but frankly that could barely be heard by a passenger in my car, let alone someone in a different vehicle altogether.

This shock and distress at my sudden silence was in complete contrast to the guffaws of my son in the seat beside me, a lad who has been subjected to my regular blasts of motorised vitriol far too often over the years.

On one occasion, he had to sit there staring into space after the driver on the receiving end of a prolonged beep turned out to be the parent of one of his best friends.

For more, read this week’s Connacht Tribune.