As the ongoing fuel shortage causes chaos around the globe, there is one consequence that Donald Trump most likely didn’t take into account before he went to war, given that he didn’t take any consequences into account: my knee.
As petrol prices rose and people ran out of internal organs to trade for tanks of fuel, they started to switch to public transport, meaning despite catching the bus so early I meet people staggering home from the Kenmore Tavern, I can no longer get a seat and have to stand.
That wouldn’t have been a problem previously, but thanks to years of me being a regular runner, despite my body shape being less marathon runner and more bakery enthusiast, my knees are older than dirt. This means that I am having a little trouble with them, in the same sense that Kier Starmer is having a little trouble with the polls.
For example, I recently had an MRI and what follows is a partial list of the problems – but first, a disturbing content warning for any Italian soccer players reading this.
I am about to produce a list of real injuries; as fake injuries tend to cause collapse and uncontrollable convulsions in Italian players, I am concerned that even a list of real ailments might send them into comas. While they usually last only until a free kick is awarded, I would rather not take the risk, hence the warning.
So the report mentions: chondral thinning and fraying at the trochlear groove, subarticular reactive changes, chondral defect at the central medial femoral condyle, small joint effusion with mild synovial thickening and something called a lobulated/septated ganglion. I am not making any of these words up, although it has crossed my mind that my specialist may be paid by the word and has been getting creative (“Hey ChatGPT! Make up a set of medical-sounding words that scare money out of people!”).
All this means that I now stand on the bus, hoping that it won’t stop suddenly and cause my trochlear groove and femoral condyle to give up all together, and result in my lower leg flying off into the distance (presuming those things exist, and play some part in holding my leg together). The only thing that has saved me so far is that passengers are packed so densely into buses these days that I am surprised we haven’t collapsed into a black hole. In any event I doubt we’d fall over if the bus ran into the Incredible Hulk.
Why don’t I drive, you may ask? Well, I’d like to point out that I am far too concerned about the environment to drive to work. I’d like to, but that would be a lie; I don’t drive because that would take me into Brisbane traffic, and it would take me longer than the estimated age of the universe to get there. Also, car manufacturers have turned driving into a very unpleasant experience.
For example, we have a relatively new car – I’d like to tell you the model of it, but I can’t for the life of me spell it, and it can only be pronounced by the members of a remote tribe in the middle of the Amazon, and they aren’t telling. It is made by a manufacturer which, in the interests of not being sued, I’ll refer to by the impenetrable pseudonym ‘Missin’ ‘. Missin’ have decided, in the interests of safety, that our car cannot be driven before a series of warnings, terms and conditions, and disclaimers are agreed to.
Every time I start the car these pop up like the privacy conditions on a website, and I treat them the same way: I don’t read them and click ‘OK’. For all I know I am agreeing to let the CEO of Missin’ use my body for spare parts as they get older; I don’t care, I just want the car to start.
Even then, the warnings continue as I drive – warnings about phone connections, fuel consumption, the possibility of an asteroid crashing into the Earth (which gets less concerning every day, to be honest) and of course the dangers of global warming.
In fact, my car is so concerned about global warming that – unless I remember to switch this function off – it turns off the engine, and thus the air-conditioning, every time I stop at traffic lights. Since sitting in a car without air-conditioning in Queensland is like sunbathing on Mercury, I find this function sub-optimal, by which I mean stupid. Perhaps it is intended to get us used to survival in a warming atmosphere?
Indeed, the only thing our Missin’ Unpronounceable did not warn us about were the two safety issues for which it has been recalled (so far). Those we found out about by letter, which was very comforting since the average delivery time for a letter these days is about an Ice Age.
Thankfully our own mechanic had already told us the car was fine, but that didn’t stop Missin’ insisting we bring the car in. Arranging for this involved an engagement with what I sincerely hope was a chatbot, an experience that was about as pleasant as dinner with Donald Trump and made about as much sense.
At the end of the day though, the car is safe again and to be honest I do love it, even if no one can pronounce its name. After all, driving along wondering which warning will go off next – not to mention when the next recall might be – makes life a little more exciting, presuming you live the life of a jellyfish that never goes out.
Oh, and if I have indeed agreed to be spare parts for Missin’s CEO, I hope they get my knee.
© Shane Budden 2026
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