My Car Smells of Butter.

It’s true. My car does smell of butter. But only in hot weather. The heat causes it to melt and permeate my car like I’m in some sort of butter Sauna. Which, to be fair, is not the worst thing in the world. I put butter on toast like slices of cheese. And then put on slices of cheese. Dripping cheesy buttery mess, heaven. I recently had my blood checked and I asked the nurse if there was butter in my veins. She laughed, and then had a second look. Not yet.

If and when I do go, I really won’t mind if it’s the butter that causes it. I’d be proud. ‘ I hear it was the butter,’ they’ll whisper at my funeral. ‘Lethal stuff. Sure, we’re all on it. I heard he tried to wean himself off it by using that olive spread. Not the same, though. He’d last a week or two and then sneak into Super Valu and buy that Kerrygold spreadable and lather it on his sourdough toast like he was plastering a wall. I heard he managed to wean himself off the 1lb blocks and stick to a variety of Olive spreads. A bit like deciding you’re not going to drink spirits and just stick to the beer. This could have given him a few more years, but ultimately, that butter lines up your arteries and blocks that river, until one day. Boom. 

Just another butter-induced cardiac arrest, and it’s all over. ‘

A very annoying recent study claimed that just one tablespoon of butter every day increased the risk of heart disease by 15%! One tablespoon? …what about half a tub? My days may be numbered. I wonder if i can get a butter producer to sponsor my funeral. They could put a banner on the side of my coffin. That could be a thing. A new wave in death advertising. People could have all sorts of branded banners on their coffins. Cigarettes, crisps, sausages, Prosecco, Beer, Stout, Vodka, Gin. Cocaine…the list is endless. 

Thankfully, my butter-fragranced car is a bit of a banger. Not in a good way. A 2006 Volkswagen Passat with 235km on the clock, and an engine warning light that has been on since I bought it 5 years ago for under €2k..  What an absolute bargain. I do love a bargain. The car, in fairness, has served me well. I’ve pumped a few grand into it over the years, but it’s still going well and owes me nothing. As time goes on, it is getting more and more like ‘ Triggers Broom’, and I have this sort of love-hate relationship with it. I’m grateful for it, but it does make me feel like a total loser. This morning, the driver's side door wouldn’t open. Admittedly, this was after the key had spent 20 minutes rolling around in the washing machine as I’d left it in my fleece pocket. I’ve had better mornings. 

I am not a neat person.  You know those attention-to-detail types. Neat, organised, structured. I’m not that. I am the opposite of that. All over the place, messy, erratic, forgetful. Frustrating, I imagine, for many who know me or live with me. But hey. Life would be boring without me.  Who else do you know whose car smells of butter? 

I bring variety and entertainment, a kind of wild abandon to the success-driven world. A refreshingly radical embrace of the loser lifestyle. 

At a recent friend's birthday party, a friend of mine described me as a ‘ dirtbag’.  Admittedly, depending on how you know me, this could be interpreted in several ways. 

What he was referring to was my ‘ live out of a car’ style that I  evoke with ease.  I’m a sort of free spirit, which really means I struggle to function within the confines of modern life. I have difficulty managing work, money, and relationships. Not in that order. 

My car symbolises this ‘Dirtbag’ lifestyle. It has a sprinkling of sand throughout, along with books, hats, food, dog hair, CDs, dust, rust and in parts some moss has started to grow.  This chaotic environment helps me maintain the belief that I am a total loser. My inner critic absolutely loves this and thrives on telling me what a complete loser I am. Regularly using my car as valid evidence for the prosecution. Which, to be fair, is difficult to defend. It is not the car of champions. And while I realise I am not my car, it is more about how I feel driving around in it, comparing myself to others in their shiny new SUVs. Particularly on a sunny day when that creamy buttery smell begins to waft up from the driver's side door. 

That may appear like a harsh analysis of the situation. But my mind is very creative when it comes to giving evidence to prove I am, in fact, a total loser.  Being single is probably the biggest undeniable chunk of evidence for the case of the prosecution. Not being able to manage a functioning relationship for any length of time does appear to be out of whack with the majority of people. I know, I know, all those couples aren’t living in bliss, but believe it or not, some are. I would like to be part of the ‘some are’ brigade. 

Admittedly, I  shoot myself in the foot in this regard. There is a good chance that my attachment style is incredibly insecure and avoidant at the same time. 

That pop psychology diagnosis, coupled with the fact that I rarely go on dates, don’t drink, and I avoid almost all social events, leaves me kind of isolated in the dating and social world and is valid evidence for the ‘John is a total loser' case for the prosecution. 

I also live fairly hand-to-mouth. My fridge is a sparse landscape of the basics.  I don’t do a weekly shop and rarely have anything edible in the freezer. I am the opposite of a ‘prepper’ . I am an unprepper. I  go to the shops when I realise I’ve run out of everything. For some reason, on that fateful buttery day I bought the small block of butter and put it on the passenger seat. I was giving someone a lift, so I picked it up and put it in the driver's side door compartment, and duly forgot about it. This, of course, happened on a rare sunny day in Ireland.

My black car soaks up the heat, so on a hot day, it can be like an oven when I sit in it. Later that day, I sat in the car and thought, "What is that smell?" Then I looked into the car door and saw a small yellow lake of melted butter gently swishing around the car door. Oh shit. My car was a buttery mess. How the hell am I going to clean this up?

I eventually managed to mop up most of it with a kitchen roll, but when I opened the door, I could see it had dripped through the door and into the body of the car. The butter is here to stay. My car now smells of butter. 

Thankfully, in the winter months there is less chance of the butter melting. I get a sort of 6-month butter-free hiatus . Perhaps now is the time to ramp up my dating activity, seeing as dating in the summer is too stressful. Imagine picking up my date, only for the sun to come out and melt the butter. I can see her now, turning her head and looking at me quizzically, asking, ‘What is that smell?’...oh that! I’d say …that’s butter. My car smells of butter. Impressed’? Unless she has a rare butter fetish, there is a good chance this date is over. What sort of loser drives around in a car that smells of butter? Me. I am that kind of loser. 

To be fair, the reason I don’t buy a new car is that I am currently saving to buy a house. Thankfully, I could actually afford to buy a car, but my Mortgage Broker strongly advised me not to. ‘  Do not buy a car.’’ She said  Fair enough. So here I am stuck in a sort of buttery car, terminally single, housing crisis mess. Single, potentially homeless, with an old car that smells of butter.  Should I put that on my Tinder profile? 

Man-child, incapable of forming meaningful attachments, potentially homeless with a 2006 Car that smells of Butter. Currently offering zero sense of security or commitment. Seeking ‘the one’. Could work. Should I include the picture of the car?

What if I try paradoxical intent and embrace the loser lifestyle? The perfect antidote to all this is to get up at 5 am, drink a chatta mocha latte infused with kale before doing Yogalates, taking a sauna, and swimming in the sea, all the while ensuring this is all documented and shared for all to see on the ‘ I’m not really sure if it is that social ‘ Social Media.  

I could do the opposite. Stay up late watching shit on Netflix. Then get up late and proceed to do absolutely nothing constructive with my day. Just lie on the couch staring at the ceiling, eating crisps and chocolate until I feel ill. Oh, wait, that is what I do. I would love to be a winner. Drive a nice car. Be fit and strong. Have a girlfriend. Live in a nice, clean home with lots of new stuff. Maybe someday. I’ll get the house, the girl,  the car, and then I’ll be happy! 

But, to be honest,  a part of me loves the fact that my car smells of butter. It’s funny. I mean, who cares? If I am to find a partner, I’d like her to be someone who really doesn’t care that my car smells of butter. Someone who, like me, thinks it’s funny. Someone who wants to be with me anyway. It will certainly narrow down my options. Separate the wheat from the chaff.

I sometimes think life is just one big opportunity for comedy. You have to laugh, or cry. You really do. Perhaps it’s best not to take this temporary Earth School experience too seriously because none of it is actually permanent. Entropy is the law of the Universe. Change will occur by itself. The butter will melt. The car will rust. This whole experience could be a dream of sorts, with the occasional nightmare that helps us to wake up. 

I could just go for it. ‘Single man seeks a woman who likes the smell of butter’ . It’s a new world. The first shall be last, and the last shall be first. I’m a loser, baby, so why don’t you kiss me?