IT COMES as no surprise - salesmen and women who clog the middle lanes of Britain's motorways are the country's most hated drivers.

Mondeo and Vectra-driving reps - typified by comedian Steve Coogan's spoof character Gareth Cheeseman - are the least popular people on the road, with around a third of motorists being annoyed by them, a survey by the RAC discovered.

And, in their company cars, they are 50 per cent more likely to be involved in an accident than the rest of us.

That's true. A salesman ran into the back of my car at a roundabout a couple of years ago and had the insurance procedure off to a tee.

"This is my third crash this year," he smirked. "It's not my car, it's all done through the company."

But I don't hate them. I find it quite amusing that they fit the stereotype so perfectly, with their permanently-harassed expression, half-eaten service station sandwich on the dashboard, briefcase with spread sheets spilling out on the back seat and, of course, the immaculate jacket on a hanger in the back.

No, there are more irritating people on the road, namely:

Drivers of large, luxury cars (Mercedes, BMWs and the like) with dark windows. I have often wondered whether there is a garage that specialises in these menacing, Mafia-style, machines as they are a fairly common feature on our streets. It's disconcerting having one of them pull up alongside you and not knowing who, or what, lurks within.

I'm probably over-reacting, but I picture a sawn-off in the glove compartment and a baseball bat under the passenger seat. I dread so much as a minor collision with one of these cars. I'd be so terrified I'd probably abandon my car at the scene, leave the country and change my identity.

Young, blonde girls in 'cute' cars in bright colours, with names that sound like cocktails - Tequila, Malibu, Pink Flamingo -- splashed across the side.

With pop music playing, they always look so young, fresh-faced, attractive and carefree, and make me feel so old, ugly and decrepit.

Male drivers who cannot handle speeds of less than 60mph, even in the B&Q car park and lurch across the passenger seat to glare at you as they overtake.

Women who have a giant top-of-the range, ultra-expensive, four-wheel-drive monstrosity as a run-around and look sneeringly over as they effortlessly fit 28 full carrier bags and five children in the back, while I'm struggling to get four bags and two children into a car the size of a chest of drawers.

I have the last laugh at the petrol pumps, however, when I spot them putting £80 of fuel in just to get home.

Dare I say it, pensioners.

Those who like to admire the scenery as they potter about. They glance at this and that as though out walking the dog and don't think anything of braking suddenly to admire an attractive clematis.

Their rear shelf is home to so many cushions that it's impossible to see whether there's anything behind.

People who pull over at the first petrol pump on the garage forecourt, blocking the next one along (which happens to be free).

Call me intolerant, but there are very few people on the road who aren't annoying in one way or another.

I'm not excluding myself here, braking for sparrows, taking five minutes to ease my way across a road hump in case it catches the exhaust and not exceeding 40 mph on the M62.

Whoever we are - sales reps, housewives, journalists - cars bring out the worst in us. They literally drive us mad.