Is Jury’s car park a Testicular Priority Zone?

One of the great things about walking into Galway City is that you never know exactly what might happen. If you look straight ahead and do not engage with the rest of the world, there’s a chance you might get everything crossed off your list and be back at the car, job done, nifty nifty.
There’s also the chance that, even if you send out the ‘don’t come near me I am a dangerous predator’ vibes, the sister of the bloke your mate went out with will suddenly feel overcome by the desire to walk over and say hello, and even though you haven’t a clue who they are, they seem nice and sure, let’s go for a coffee, and before you know it four hours have passed and you have to dash home and liberate the kitty from the clutches of the hamster.
All very possible, as long as your car is not in a Pay and Display spot, because then you’ll only have two hours to do everything, see everybody and get back to your motor.
So I go to Jury’s car park, because there I get a ticket which is payable upon leaving, leaving me free to enjoy Galway as long as I want to. A typical example of the late 20th century multi-storey, Jury’s car park has sharp bends, steep ramps, and white-lined parking bays that are just wide enough to squeeze yer family saloon into, using both side mirrors. But once your motor is safely ensconced in Jury’s, you are free to linger in town or leg it out, do a runner sharpish, depending on whether you bump into friend of foe.
Unlike anywhere else in town, your time in Galway is not dictated by the time on your ticket.
But the Snapper, by her own admission “doesn’t do Jury’s car park”, and neither does Angel’s wife, and nor do several other women of my acquaintance.
Much as we men are constantly reminded by ye women that we are useless at multi-tasking (and me here right now all typing, thinking, blinking and breathing, simultaneous and co-ordinated despite dangly bits between the legs) you are surely fairly willing to accept some limitations in the arena of spatial aptitude.
We know that women are safe drivers, because insurance companies are interested only in making money and they rate women drivers as better risks than men, but is there something about all those twisty-turny first gear climbs and manoeuvring into tight-squeezed spaces that puts the wind up the fairer gender?
Is Jury’s car park a Testicular Priority Zone?
Before you start plunging your lubed Rabbits into my jugular vein, take a deep breath and realise that I’m only asking. Of course there are some females who use Jury’s car park, but many don’t, yet not one bloke I know would hesitate to swing in there and enjoy its temporal benefits.
So let me know if you’re a woman who uses it, enjoys it, and also, could you please tell me if any of you stop using Jury’s during your PMS days?
Is it possible that like the adult arachnophobe who was once a six year-old who suffered a scary spider in his sandwich, some of the women who refuse to use Jury’s car park were traumatised by their first attempt, which unbeknownst to them happened to coincide with a dose of Pre-menstrual syndrome?
Believe me, I’m well aware that my hypothesis at this point looks ridiculously obscure, preposterous and irrelevant enough to score a massive funding grant from some high-blown academic research institute, but it has long been accepted that during the pre-menstrual days, there is a pronounced drop in the level of a woman’s mechanical and mental efficiency, causing impaired reactions and judgement.
And why do I give a damn? What have the workings of a woman’s inner sanctum got to do with this lowly scribbler?
Nothing personal, ladies. I’m just curious.
At this point I cite the case made by the American lawyer, jurist, and political commentator Alan M. Dershowitz, in his 1994 report: ‘The PMS Defense, The Abuse Excuse, and Other Cop-outs, Sob Stories and Evasions of Responsibility’ in which he describes an incident involving a female orthopaedic surgeon who was pulled over by a US state trooper on Thanksgiving night, after he saw her swerving her BMW.
When the trooper asked the driver how much she’d had to drink, she identified herself as “a doctor” and told the trooper that it was none of his “damn business.”
The trooper then asked her to place her hands on top of her head, but instead she tried to kick him in the groin, yelling: “You son of a [expletive]; you [expletive] can't do this to me; I'm a doctor. I hope you [expletive] get shot and come into my hospital so I can refuse to treat you, or if any other trooper gets shot, I will also refuse to treat them.”
After being arrested, the driver kicked the Breathalyzer machine, before failing the test and being charged with drunken driving.
The driver’s lawyer argued that women absorb alcohol more quickly during their pre-menstrual cycle and that women with PMS became more irritable and hostile than other people.
Amazingly the Virginia judge figured this made a lot of legal sense, and acquitted the woman. Needless to say, the doctor and her lawyer were ecstatic, but my point is this:
As the first-known instance of a PMS acquittal, it may well prove to be a test case, serving as a precedent for future cases.
As a bloke I am the least-able person to judge whether a woman suffering from PMS might be safe behind the wheel, or an insanely raging hormonal death deliverer in charge of a fast-moving lethal weapon.
According to the above court of Virginian law, a women suffering from PMS is also the least-able person to judge her own driving. If she can’t even control herself when talking to a copper, how is she meant to keep to the Highway Code?
Even though I can already feel your female fury bubbling up as I scribble, there is no hint here of sexism.
Simply, if you’re a woman driver who frequently uses Jury’s car park in Galway, please let me know if it feels more challenging parking in there when you’re suffering from PMS, and if so, ergo, do you think you are safe to drive?