There’s a special kind of person behind the wheel of a black BMW. You know the one — overtaking you at Mach 3, exhaust burbling like a caffeinated chainsaw, all while surgically avoiding the use of their indicators. If you’ve not encountered one today, just wait until the school run or a trip to Aldi. They’ll find you.
Let’s get the basics out the way: BMW drivers don’t use indicators.
I don’t even think they know where the stalk is. Perhaps BMW charges extra for them now — “Add blinkers? That’s for peasants.”
The only signal you’ll get is a flash of headlights, a blast of horn, and maybe even a good old-fashioned ‘flippin’ the bird’ while they sit three inches from your rear bumper, desperate to reclaim their rightful position doing 90mph in a 50 zone. Usually followed by a last-minute, high-risk swerve across three lanes to make an exit they’ve known about for five miles — just in time to join the queue at the roundabout.
They’re not in a rush, you understand. They’re just in a BMW.
And it’s always the black ones. Black BMWs are like the uniform of the impatient, the entitled, and the ‘I’m too busy for your speed limit’ brigade. I saw one the other day revving at a zebra crossing — not even waiting, just revving. It was like a toddler having a tantrum, but with more horsepower and worse taste in alloy wheels.
They love a traffic light challenge too. Every red light is a starting grid. The moment it turns amber, whoomph! off they go like it’s the Nürburgring — only to slam the brakes 100 metres later at the next red light. Victory! Now wait again.
The Driver Profile
These aren’t just drivers. They’re lifestyle statements.
Always reclining — seat tilted back like they’re doing the limbo. Sunglasses on, arm over the wheel, chewing something aggressively.
Music loud enough to register on the Richter scale, usually accompanied by basslines so deep you’ll feel the rumble before you even see them. It’s not so much a soundtrack as a warning system. Bonus points if they’ve fitted a fake “performance” exhaust that makes the car sound like it’s trying to cough up its own engine.
And parking?
Double yellows? Perfect.
Pavement? Ideal.
Diagonally across two spaces in an otherwise empty car park? Mandatory.
Black BMWs don’t park. They occupy.
I once saw one pull a full spin into a parking space, narrowly missing a pensioner with a trolley.
Driver’s response? Engine still running. No apology. Just the confident smirk of a man who probably buys his aftershave from a vape shop.
Career Choice: “Entrepreneur”
Let’s not ignore the career choice. Some of these black BMWs wouldn’t look out of place in a low-budget crime drama.
False plates? Tick.
Boot full of gym bags and suspicious “deliveries”? Tick.
A faint herbal aroma and a few baggies of what’s definitely not oregano? Tick.
The only paperwork in the glove box is probably rolling papers.
Meet-ups, Apparently
They also love a good “meet-up”, usually held in the furthest corner of a retail park car park — the one with the flickering lamppost and a lonely trolley bay.
Sometimes it’s the back of a 24-hour petrol station, where they loiter like they’re waiting for a race to start, or a leisure centre after closing, because nothing screams performance motoring like posing next to a recycling bin full of soggy leaflets.
There, they compare exhaust tones, vape clouds, illegally tinted windows, and how many MOT advisories they can ignore before the car starts begging for mercy. It’s like Top Gear if it had no budget, no insurance, and a restraining order from common sense — all set against the glamorous backdrop of a cracked kerb, a discarded Greggs bag, and a faint smell of Red Bull and bad choices.
In Conclusion:
If you’re in front of them, they’re furious.
If they’re in front of you, they’re blocking both lanes.
And if they’re parked?
Well… they’re probably in your spot.
Stay safe out there. And whatever you do… don’t expect an indicator.
