Navigator

Today I took my first plunge into the confounding world of satellite navigation. This here device is, rather bafflingly, called a TomTom - I can only presume the name derives from the fact that within seconds of picking it up, you want to bash it forcefully and repeatedly with your fists until someone else comes in and says "hey, give me a go." I have to wonder if the sextant and the astrolabe provoked this much ire when they were invented. I suppose it's possible, but those gadgets had one crucial advantage over the satnav: they didn't take voice commands, and therefore didn't demand of their user that (s)he speak English in the kind of accent that is principally brayed by BBC presenters and people called Rupert.

My conversation with TomTom was therefore brief, unproductive, and largely infuriating:

Me: AH WANT TER GEW IN TER BRUMMIDGUM.

Satnav: You have asked for directions to the nearest veterinarian. Is this correct?

Me: NO. HOW ABAHT FOINDIN THE WAY TER WALSALL?

Satnav: You are attempting to fondle the waiter in a Waltz Hall. Is this correct?

Me: NO, IT AY. LOOK, AH'M OFF DAHN DUDLEY MARKET.

Satnav: You are often a deadly meerkat. Is this correct?

Me: NO. AROIT, IS THA FUCKIN ANYWHEER AH CON GEW?

Satnav: You are frolicking on a weir in the Congo. If you require further advice on how to navigate away from this location, please contact the United Nations.

Me: YA LITTLE PIXELLATED PRICK. BET YA COULDN'T EVEN GET ME TER LONDON, COULD YA?

Satnav: You have asked for directions to the nearest soulless, yuppie-infested shithole. Is this correct?

Me: NICE ONE! NOW YOME GERRIN THE HANG OF IT!