Photo: © 2010 COLOR CHINA PHOTO/AP via AAP

There are more figures out today about how distracted we’ve become as drivers. The phone, the kids, the food and drink on the run, are all stealing our attention and making our roads less safe. As serious as that is, I’d like to draw attention to another danger commonly found in city traffic.

When I was in the UK, I was struck by the courtesy on the roads. Drivers letting others in when they didn’t have to, excessive indicating (who signals left when they’re just about to leave a roundabout?), and other unexpected favours made long-distance driving a genuine pleasure. When you’re the recipient of a good deed, you’re much more likely to perform one in return.

Australians are the complete opposite. We’re a nation of friendly Dr Jekylls who transform into nasty, sweary-mouthed, highly-strung Mr Hydes the moment we find ourselves at the wheel of even the most demure hatchback. We’re amazingly petty about the smallest of perceived infringements.

I try to bring a bit of Britain to the road when I drive. The odd act of courtesy rarely costs me any time, the pacifist approach keeps me calm, and the occasional smile or wave of acknowledgement leaves everyone feeling good.

But that all goes out the window when I encounter a left-lane-running rat. You know the one. It’s a two-lane road. There’s a problem up ahead – maybe a parked car, or a merge into a single lane. Decent drivers begin to fold neatly into the through-lane in a time-honoured pattern, with the precision of the Roulettes. As we approach the narrowing point, we’re a smooth-flowing single line.

That’s exactly when some moron behind us will decide that the empty left lane is his - or her - chance to overtake a dozen cars. He looms up in the side mirror, and suddenly he’s beside you. The next thing you know, you’re being bumped sideways into oncoming traffic as he enforces some apparently God-given right to enter the orderly single lane in the position of his choosing.

(By the way, are you picturing a squeaky clean four-wheel drive right now? Me too. Funny, isn’t it?)

Nothing boils my blood like the left-lane rat-runner. What sort of arrogance does it take to think he deserves a 12-car promotion in heavy traffic when he’s done nothing to deserve it? And what’s his hurry? Probably late for an Anzac Day march where he’ll wear the fake medals he snapped up on eBay.

If it’s not arrogance, it’s stupidity. Here’s a tip. If you’re approaching traffic lights, and all the cars in front are banked up in the right hand lane, leaving the left lane empty, there’s a reason. Sure, it could be that we’ve spotted a charity tin rattler on the left-hand kerb, but, more likely, there’s a merge on. Hit the indicator, doofus, and take your place in the queue.

When one of these tools tries to wedge his bumper in front of me like a tabloid TV reporter’s foot at the door of a dodgy dating agency, that’s when I explode. Road rage is more than understandable at this point; it should be mandatory. If I’ve missed a change of lights doing the right thing, then I’ve paid my dues. The road is mine, and you can sit there and wait til I’m done with it.

As the left-lane interloper presses in, my whole demeanour changes. I call down curses on him. I offer him a brief summary of his genealogy and a detailed description of his preferences in the bedroom. I long for spikes in my hubcaps like the evil dragster in Grease, or even worse, I start wishing that I had the PM in my passenger seat and someone just ruffled his hair. Anything to ensure the imbecile now nudging me across the double white lines will never do it again.

It’s all wasted effort, of course. Public opinion can’t lay a glove on these drivers’ exalted opinion of themselves. And no matter how evil a glare I try to throw, it’s completely undone by my sky blue Pulsar. I’m as intimidating as bared fangs on a snail.

In reality, sociable road users have no defensive option but to conspire to tailgate each other so the arrogant bastard can’t get in. But that’s quite dangerous - which is why it’s high time insurance companies accepted that in the event of a nose-to-tail collision under these circumstances, it’s totally the fault of the other driver we were trying to prevent from muscling in.

If the Tailgate Defence doesn’t work, then he’s in, and my day is ruined. The only remedy is revenge – legal, of course. The simplest way is to get in front of him, slow down and make him hit a few reds; a far more satisfying approach is to give a dollar to a traffic light squeegee guy to chuck his dirty bucket of water through my nemesis’s sunroof. (Note that it is considered polite to help the squeegee guy make a getaway, and buy him a new bucket.)

My hatred of the left-lane-running rat has some wiggle room. If you’re from interstate, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt as an out-of-towner who might not know the local conditions. If your momentum carries you past me just as I’m moving away from a traffic light, then fair play to you. And it goes without saying that if you’re a little bit hot, come on in, but I’d better get a wave.

Of course, none of these exceptions apply if your vehicle has a luxury European badge or a personalised number plate.

Because, like I said, we’re petty.