Leeds is precisely 200 miles from London. I know. I just counted every single one of them. Twice. Once there, once back. And all because somebody died. A real ‘somebody’, not just ‘the death of Spurs’ dreams’, the end of all hope for football fans in N17, not even the day civilisation died (when Arsenal won 2-nil last week). Nope, this was a real person. Laid to rest in Leeds. And we went. Because sometimes, you just need to.

It was a remarkably unremarkable journey up there. Which is the absolute best you can ever hope for on the first motorway in the land, designed for 1955 levels of traffic and butchered by the 2020s obsessions of slowing everyone down, speed fucking cameras and worst of all… emissions! I kid you not. As you approach Sheffield (in your 40-ton, 8-litre diesel spewing monster lorry, or even Mini Countryman) you see a sign saying ‘slow down to 60!!! For reduction of emissions!)

Sheffield. Where they used to make steel. Where two monster chimneys adjacent to the motorway spewed out 24-hour a day shit for 60 years. Where all the inhabitants smoke 60-a-day. Most importantly: where we really don’t give a shit about Sheffieldies and we’re in a hurryyyyyy!!! So I sped up to 80. I’m that kind’a guy.

So we buried poor old Mike, God rest his soul, had some lunch and set off home.

My wife has so many attributes. She’s organised, she’s really together… errrrr… she’s gorgeous (I really do have to say that), a fantastic swimmer… errrrr… she’s just FAB! But she can’t navigate for shit. Give her control of Waze and she’ll have me turning into Tesco’s car park or the driveway of number 7 Shakespeare Drive, Bradford, before you can say ‘turn the car around… turn the car around… turn the car…’ Its just not her thing. I’m ok with that.

So for the way home she called up the satnav of choice and plugged in ‘home’ and off we went, back to the M1. Or so I thought. Waze decided that in fact, the A1 was a better bet. But it didn’t tell us. It certainly didn’t tell my navigator. So we trekked about 25 miles across West Yorkshire to find it.

I didn’t mind. I didn’t know, in fact until about half a mile down this funny-looking ‘M1’, when it announced ‘end of motorway’. Ahhhhh, its the A1M. Oh. Oh well, all roads point south. Eventually.

And as it happens that was also a nice, easy, clear run home. Just 9 hours after we left that morning. The only bad thing was that we made it home with sufficient time for me to see Arsenal score the winner against Man. United. Is one little traffic jam too much to ask for when you need it???

Happy Monday

A xxxx