JACK VENING RECKONS PLATES ARE GREAT.
One of my favourite moments in any piece of fiction occurs in the short story “I Bought a Little City” by Donald Barthelme. The narrator (new owner of the eponymous little city) is touring one of the nice new parks he’s just created when he witnesses a man playing the bongos. “I hate bongo drums,” he says. “I started to tell him to stop playing those goddamn bongo drums, but then I said to myself, ‘No, that’s not right. You got to let him play his goddamn bongo drums if he feels like it. It’s part of the misery of democracy, to which I subscribe.’”

This line bubbles to the surface any time I’m exposed to what I would call my own personal miseries of democracy – the kinds of behaviour that are annoying enough to give you an ulcer, but which you must concede are mostly harmless. You know what I mean: middle-aged anime cosplayers on Instagram; white guys with dreadlocks; that style of hip-hop where they rap about healing crystals. Unfortunately, you’ve got to let them play their goddamn bongo drums (some more literally than others).

Personalised number plates would have once landed in this category as well. But in the last few years I’ve realised something: I love personalised plates. I adore them. Not in any sort of aspirational sense, of course; maybe more of a morbid curiosity. Witnessing one in the wild is a delight, like seeing a dog walking on its hind legs – you forget it’s a thing; it feels a little disturbing to rediscover; and everyone agrees that God shouldn’t let the ugly ones do it.

Personalised plates are alarmingly expensive for what boils down to a fancy name tag for your car, and the choice to pay that much money for something that unnecessary speaks of a kind of mind that we need to study. Imagine if you gave the government a thousand dollars so you could wear a t-shirt that says “MR.BIG”, even though, let’s be honest, you’re probably suspended from wearing it most of the year because you’re addicted to speeding in school zones. Who are these people? What sort of effect does this have on them? Has the electricity of it worn off, or are they still filled with power every time they get behind the wheel of their uniquely beplated car? 

Whatever it is, we must be grateful for it. When we drive up behind a PT Cruiser inscribed with G.UN1T, or a convertible named WEGGY (both of which are wonderful examples I saw recently), we’re seeing into someone’s soul. We must delight in the act of witnessing it and make our best effort to fight the urge to ram them onto a nature strip. It’s a bewildering mode of modern expression, totally useless, offering no worth and serving no purpose other than to be an expression. And doesn’t that – and I’m annoying myself by even thinking this – sound a little like what art really is? Shouldn’t we let them play their goddam bongo drums?

Now, would I ever use personalised plates myself? Sure, I can see a reality in which that’s the case: say, if the courts started requiring the condemned to drive around with their offences emblazoned on their cars following conviction of some arcane crime that hasn’t been enforced in this century (I think “PAUPER” or “BIGAMIST” would look great on my 2016 Corolla).

Would I ever do it in any other circumstance? My word, no. I’d sooner get my Goku outfit out of storage and risk a fatal fall at my seniors’ manga meetup.

DEIRDRE FIDGE HATES THE PLATES.
According to VicRoads, of Victoria’s 6.84 million registered vehicles, 1.71 million have custom plates. This is an astonishing figure indicating one in six people have a condition I call “vanity plate brainworms” or VPB. Since learning this statistic I feel less safe on the road, and so should you: personalised plates are a sign of deep psychic disturbance.

Vanity plates are the adult equivalent of a toddler’s name labelled on a bottle to avoid mix-ups at daycare, minus the practicality. A bizarre number of these are variations on ‘MYCAR’: MYBMW, MYRAV4. We know this is your car; you have the keys. Are you OK? Do you have a label on your phone stating MYPHONE? A MYHOUSE sign on your front door? MYCAT? MYTOILET? Where does the madness end? In these cases I strongly feel we should be able to citizen’s-arrest these drivers to have their cognitive faculties re-evaluated.

Perhaps it all started in primary school when they carefully cut out cardboard letters to insert into the plastic tabs on their pencil case. Perhaps they never got over their fear that someone would pinch a pen, or never overcame their bitterness at having a name that didn’t fit into the allotted plastic tabs. It’s nobody’s business what individuals spend their money on, but in these cases the extra dollars could be spent on a psychological check-up. 

It’s hard to deny these drivers must be seeking attention, which is not inherently wrong, but on the road everyone’s attention should be on traffic. Safety first, people! When a tattoo is personal and seemingly nonsensical, that’s a non-event, but when vanity plates are personal and nonsensical it could lead to a crash: what does C0VW8L0 mean? Cow blow? I don’t want my last thought to be “cow blow?” while I’m accidentally drifting onto the next lane directly into a semitrailer.

It could be dangerous to the VPB-afflicted too. Picture this: they have a cardiac event while driving and lose consciousness at the wheel, breaking down. A good Samaritan then calls emergency services, wasting precious seconds explaining to the triple zero operator, “It’s a blue sedan, licence plate MYBMW. No sorry, not my BMW, I have a Toyota. It’s a vanity plate; I’ll spell it out letter by letter: M for Mike, Y for yellow, B for – ah never mind, they stopped breathing; just bring the coroner.”

My favourite flavour of personalised plates are the ones that brag: variations of BESTDAD, BADBOY and the like. I vividly remember a near-miss on a highway after a P-plater leaving KFC cut me off and sped away in her spluttering Ford Laser, licence plates alerting me a SXYGRL was having a nervous breakdown and needed chicken immediately. I HEART KFC must have been taken. If you’re the best dad or a sexy gal you’d better be able to back that claim up lest your lies become known.  Oh, you’re the BESTDAD? Prove it: take me to Movie World and show me a good time. Better yet, tell me you’re proud of me!

I feel particularly aggrieved about this because of my own car. After moving interstate, I acquired new licence plates and when I collected them nearly fainted from fear: they had my initials. What if someone thinks I paid extra for these? It was a sickening coincidence. Logically I’m aware that to other drivers, these look like normal state-issued plates, and they do not know my name. But illogically, I feared passers-by would spot me at a red light, and shout “Oi! That lady’s got VPD!” sparking an angry mob to chase me down and tar and feather me in a public square. And despite this humorous misunderstanding, they would be right to do so.

This heated debate comes straight out of issue 133. Nab a copy for yourself from the frankie shop or visit one of our lovely stockists. For future issues, subscribe here.