Oh Deer!

Why didn’t the deer cross the road? Because it was hit, bang on, by a fast moving two tonne Jaguar. ‘Well, that’s not funny!’ I hear you cry, and you’d be right, it’s a bloody inconvenience. 

Happily driving down the Caterham Bypass at night after a long, hard day’s work my brother and I were faced with an unexpected conundrum: should we vainly attempt to dodge the stupid deer that had jumped out in front of us from nowhere or should we teleport to a parallel dimension where deers do not exist, drive a few yards before returning to our own world, having successfully side-stepped the moronic mammal. 

The choice was an easy one; teleport, but unfortunately due to factors outside of our control such as time constraints and the lack of experience with building anything remotely electrical let alone a teleport machine, we had to opt for the first choice. 

We were travelling along the dual carriageway at 50mph when the deer literally jumped out in front of us. There were no other cars visible on the road, none in front and none behind. I imagine the deer was having a heated internal debate as to when it should cross the road, maybe something like this:

Internal Voice 1: Let’s cross the road to see mum.
 
Internal Voice 2: Ok, but remember what she taught you, always use the green cross code.

IV1: Toad? They’re rubbish at crossing roads, I’m not copying them!

IV2: You deaf twat! Code! Stop, Look, Listen and all that.

IV1: Well, how long do I stop for? I’ve been here a while now just talking to you. 

IV2: You wait until it’s safe to cross, then you have a look to check, then you listen out for anything, and then if it’s safe you cross. 

IV1: Hang on a sec, I can’t hear a bloody thing with this roar of a 4 litre supercharged Jaguar so loud, and I can’t see anything with the blinding headlights in my eyes, I’ve stopped long enough I reckon, so let’s go!

IV2: No wait!

*BANG*

IV2: You twat.

To be completely serious, I strongly suspect that this deer was out to get us, and may well have been a suicide deer. 

Fortunately, it’s evil plan did not succeed. In the car we felt a mild jolt, much like driving over a large pothole, and watched amazed as the deer did a rather good impression of a dead deer flying off the bonnet of a car. 

Having got out, we looked at the deer, it was spasming a bit, then looked back at the car, then back at the deer. I asked my brother what we should do, do we call the police? Do we call the RSPCA? Do we call Ghostbusters? I’m pretty sure there’s no mention of what to do, having hit a deer, in the highway code. A short silence ensued, promptly followed by a swift kick to the deer’s head from my brother. “It’s dead.” In a final act of defiance, the deer refuted this by embarking on another series of  convulsions. My brother and I watched and waited then dragged it off the road. We pushed the headlights back into the front and limped the car to the local Jaguar garage. 

Unfortunately the car was having other ideas, and decided to die about a mile later. We trundled it into a BP petrol station and called for rescue in the form of my good lady in her little Micra.

The diagnosis of the Jag is still not in as of this moment, but is likely to be a write-off.

The diagnosis of the deer is that it’s dead. Stupid, and dead.