Rant – onetruekev

Modern Life Is Rubbish

Do you remember when there used to be two prices up on display when you went into somewhere like Maccy D’s? As they had an eat in and a takeaway price, something to do with the fact VAT was only charged on eat in then. Then the VAT rules changed, and it became the same price for in or out. Well, it seems to be going the other way now. The menu screens in Maccy D’s now talk about a surcharge per takeaway order.

At the moment it is just in Scotland and as I understand it, it is to do with littering. I’ve not seen it mentioned in other fast-food places (which are national chains), and I’ve not been north of the border in over twenty-five years, but to me, on the surface at least, it sounds like a good idea.

The take away surcharge is paid to the council(s) who have the misfortune to have to pick up all the rubbish lazy bastards leave behind, because as a nation we have become morons who think it is acceptable to just dump litter anywhere, even where there is a bin in sight. And it does seem as if there is a lot of it which is Maccy D’s take away paper bags and wrappers. There is something about that (not so cheap or fast anymore) brand which attracts the king of halfwit who can’t use dustbins.

I think this kind of charge should be implemented in the rest of the UK, and I would go further. Have the orders print out name and contact details onto the takeaway wrappers and bags so it is possible to identify and prosecute the littering bastards.

It’s the lazy sense of entitlement that drives me around the bend. I was sat in the window having Maccy D’s breakfast as I usually do before going to writing. There were two other people sat on the same side of the doors to me, and as they finished, they both wandered off and left their trays and empty wrappers on the bench in front of the window for someone else to clean up.

This is despite the fact that when they got up to leave, they have to walk past the bin to get out of the door. They are literally and physically walking past the fucking bin. They managed to carry their food to the bench to eat, but it’s too much fucking trouble to throw it away at the end.

Aaarrgh!

And I knew full well it would be the same or worse at the football in the afternoon. Thousands of people too lazy and too stupid to put their litter in the binds they have to walk past to get out of the stands. It looks like a fucking bombsite at the end of every game. And you know full well if someone randomly dumped empty wrappers in their garden or yard, they would be up in arms about it.

But there is no cost to them, no deterrent, and as a society, on the whole we don’t do anything about it. It is always someone else’s problem to deal with. No one ever takes responsibility for their own actions.

And that is rubbish.

Fuck Live Forever, Just Die Already

Headlines this week have been dominated by catastrophic news and wall to wall coverage of events most sane people prayed would never happen.

The monobrowed, Thunderbird puppet lookalike, Gallagher brothers have reformed Oasis to pay for a few more years of living lavish lifestyles and are ready to fleece plenty of unsuspecting (and to be fair quite a few willing) victims out of money that could do some good in their own lives instead of lining the pockets of two (well five if you include the other band members) argumentative Manc twats.

The news of their reunion concerts is everywhere. It’s like a time warp has taken me back to the days when at least I could blot out most of their shit with ridiculous quantities of alcohol.

Absolute Radio might as well change their name to Proctology FM, so far up the brothers arses they have crawled in mentioning the reunion at every given opportunity (and a shit load of ungiven ones). Not listening to the radio most of the week I had missed most of it – Helen had changed stations because of the constant barrage of smoke blowing. But Saturday morning when the alarm went off, it was still tuned into Absolute, and I said jokingly to Helen, how long do you reckon before they mention Oasis. Turned out to be less than a minute as they were the first words to come tumbling out of the mouth of whichever sycophantic presenter it was doing the early morning slot on Proctology FM. And he then proceeded to play Champagne Supernova at which point it was alarm off before we could see if time really could fly if you threw the alarm clock out of the window.

I got into town and nipped into HMV to pick up a couple of CDs which had been released this week and contrary to the line of CDs and Vinyl under the heading of playing now, they were playing Oasis as well. There really is no escaping this shit show anywhere you go. Although at least HMV were playing “Definitely Maybe”.

Thirty years ago when that album came out, I loved the album and the wall of sound on it. But it only took them until album two, the much loved and critically acclaimed “(What’s The Story) Morning Glory” for them to start disappearing up their own arses. The two thirty-something seconds instrumentals on the album showed just what a bunch of pretentious twats they were willing to become. Their third album – “Be Here Now” had record breaking first day sales (one I think still stands). Unofficially it also had record breaking day two returns with complaints of how shit it was.

I did live in Burnage in Manchester where they come from back in the early noughties, and I used to frequent Sifters record shop which they name check on “Definitely Maybe”. I can see why they don’t live in Burnage anymore.

I have been to see them live, not that I really wanted to. I went with two housemates – both called Mark – and I’m fairly sure I only went because whoever the ticket I used was originally for couldn’t make it. The gig was at the Old Trafford cricket ground, and it would be a bit unfair to say they were shit. There’s no way they were that good. They were uninterested, just going through the motion, and the only audience participation was to barrack Ryan Giggs who had a hospitality box at the gig. They were obviously only doing it for the money, something I fully expect them to repeat next year.

The main support was Richard Ashcroft, and he was good. But for the Oasis set I found myself moving further back as they played. Partly because they were shit, but mainly because of the moronic, knuckle dragging fans who spent the whole gig filling up bottles and plastic pint pots with piss and then launching them forward over the rest of the crowd. Fuckwits.

The prices of tickets are ridiculous, and it is amazing that people were sharing screen shots of being number 201,769 in the queue for tickets. The fact they had teamed up with Ticketmasterbator to sell the tickets at ‘dynamic pricing’ was not a surprise. All cunts together and all that. And those prices are before every support industry weighs in with their own money gouging shithousery. Hotels are already at it, kicking out previously booked guests claiming ‘technical issues’ and then reselling the rooms for more than twice the price, and fucking up things like weddings in doing so.

Fortunately, there is a lot of piss taking going on as well. Lots of memes, fake e-mails, and jokes doing the rounds. Such as the Facebook status “Marked safe from the Oasis reunion”. Or the joke about I left two Oasis tickets on my car’s dashboard and some cunt broke in and left two more. The e-mail from Uganda saying you have won pre-ballot tickets, send £1000 to secure them is another. Although if you gave me £1000, I might consider going to one of the gigs. And after consideration, common sense would kick in and I’d tell you to stick them up your arse.

Even if the gigs and all the hype around them is going to be painful I do have one positive thought about their reunion. And that is I positively hope that they are only doing the money gouging gigs and that they will not be releasing a new album. That really would be too much for a beleaguered world to have to bear.

Peace Is An Illusion

I think Edwin Starr put it most succinctly.

“War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing.”

Which in the purest sense is correct. But humans are stupid. They don’t live anything close to a purest sense of anything. They always see there is something to fight for. Power, money, the land grabs, wanting to plunder the resources lying beneath the surface.

It is big business, both from having access to mineral resources, but also the actual business of war. Megalomaniac companies cashing in on selling guns and equipment, bombs, and bullets. Culture Club very poppily said

“War, war is stupid, and people are stupid.”

Which they are because they lap up all this bullshit.

If money isn’t the root of all evil, then it is certainly its main food source. Thousands of years ago someone decided that the shiny metal they found in the ground was valuable, and ever since, every little thing that has been found in, on, or under the ground has been given an arbitrary value. And so, humans now fight over what has been valued by other humans.

Everyone will tell you that gold is more valuable than flour, or milk. But that’s just stupid greed. You can’t feed yourself with gold, it isn’t edible. It can be argued that the gold buys the flour and milk. But that is only because rich greedy knobheads tell you that is the case. And so, they fight for it.

Yet even with the ridiculous amount of war for power and money it is not the biggest cause of war. No, that dubious title goes to religion. Which is even more ridiculous than fighting for money and power. It equates to two bald men fighting over a comb. The rhetoric of “my imaginary cloud friend is better than yours, and to prove it, despite our imaginary cloud friend being all about peace and love, we’re going to kill and main you, and when it’s done, that will show we are right.” is just lunacy.

And what is even worse is most of the religious wars are because they have a different name for the same imaginary cloud friend, or they’ve interpreted the same piece of ancient fiction writing is a different way and are therefore literally fighting over semantics. As with the money and power there is cabal of those at the top of religions. And what is worse than with the money and power is the atrocious sexism involved in so many major religions.

Religions bang on about compassion, but actively discriminate against women (who, on the whole are a hell of a lot more compassionate than men). But if the women had been in charge, then there is a strong likelihood that most of the wars would never have taken place.

On the whole I think we would be better off if REM’s ‘Losing My Religion’ was a suggestion followed by billions all over the planet.

End Of The Tether

The trend is expanding, and it is annoying as hell.

And what trend is this I hear you ask? (Well, I don’t, no one gives a shit really.)

Drinks. Soft drinks to be precise. Manufacturers now tethering their plastic lids to their plastic bottles. It started, as most terrible, terrible things do, with Coca-Cola putting them on their brands. So, you can’t take the lid of the bottle and hold it away from the bottle to use it. it stays attached to the bottle making it stupidly awkward to drink directly from the bottle, or to pour from the bottle.

Now, I do understand why they think they need to do this. There are so many pieces of artwork around the country made from discarded plastic bottle tops. Dropped on the ground by thoughtless morons. But in doing this they are now punishing the millions, if not billions of people who aren’t complete fucking morons and are perfectly capable of putting the lid back on the bottle when finished with it and putting the whole thing in the recycling.

As ever it is all about making life harder for the customer as companies don’t give a fuck about the consumer or customer. All they are interested in are being box ticking cunts.

If they really gave a fuck about the environment, they so claim to care about then they would go back to the seventies and put everything in glass bottles with metal lids and have a deposit on them. It worked amazingly well back then.

Yes, there would still be a whole host of utter morons who would just discard the bottles as they do with plastic. But with the prospect of getting money back for them, there would be plenty of others who would quite happily go around picking them up to cash in on them.

So, just fucking stop it with your ridiculous box ticking annoying as hell shit tethers and let those of us who aren’t complete cockwombles carry on drinking and pouring unencumbered by your shit.

Not Fit (Note) For Purpose

I suppose I’ve been lucky over the years. I’ve managed to reach the age of fifty-three without ever having to need a med cert or more recently a fit note. But I’ve had proper Covid over the last couple of weeks, and so when it got to last Tuesday, I needed a fit note.

And that’s where the fun and games started.

On Monday afternoon I tried to get a Tuesday appointment. I was told I had to ring on the day to get an appointment for that day. When I dragged myself out of bed Tuesday morning it was after 10am and there were no appointments. Furthermore, they said they didn’t do fit notes for Covid. Which was strange seeing as Helen had gotten an appointment with her doctors on Monday, and gotten a fit note.

So, I set the alarm and got up earlier on Wednesday morning, rang as the lines opened at half past eight to be twenty-seventh in the queue. Thirty-five minutes later I got through to find there were no appointments. And they tried to fob me off against telling me to check the NHS website as they didn’t do fit notes for Covid. Yet again I got them to agree that they actually did, but I’d need to try again in the morning for an appointment.

Thursday came. I dragged myself up and queued up at the surgery half an hour before they opened. Second one there, and they still didn’t want to help. They told me I couldn’t have a face-to-face appointment as I hadn’t had a negative Covid test, and that I would have to ring 111 to get it sorted. It was only when I broke down in tears of frustration at being fobbed off again that the receptionist said they did have telephone appointments available. Which is what I’d asked for in the first place.

I was told it would be a morning call, but they couldn’t give an exact time. I’m glad to know that ten past midday counts as morning. About ninety seconds later a fit note was pinging as a text message to my phone as the doctor wished me well and hung up.

That ninety seconds was so easy, but it was the fourth day and fifth contact with them to get there. And as someone who was unwell and wiped out to begin with it was very tiring and stressful.

It does show I think, just how stretched the NHS is and how it makes it difficult for all. But despite still not being 100% this week, I’ve gone back to work as I can’t face the stress of trying to get another fit note.

Portslade Station Can Do One

Because I refuse to drive the hire car for both my own safety and blood pressure, and for the sake of all other road users out there, I got the train to work today (last Thursday now).

The train down isn’t too bad, change at Brighton, and with a reduced timetable due to strike action, there wasn’t the usual step foot off the train from Three Bridges to watch the one going through Portslade just pulling out from platform one. Though as usual the ticket wouldn’t work at one end, the Three Bridges end this time.

It let me out (this time) at Portslade station. I’m not a fan of Portslade station as a whole. It’s lay out is just fucked up. It would be great if there was a gate into work from the far end of the platform, but I know that one is a pipe dream. But they have barriers and a ticket office in the building you go through to the south bound platform. But there is no ticket machine in there.

To pick up pre-ordered tickets you have to find the ticket machine. It is outside, well away from the ticket office – which makes no sense to anyone – and is out in the elements, so you either get soaked, or you can’t see the screen as the sun is always on it. it’s a stupid layout.

But not as stupid as the platform on the other side is. On the south side you enter/exit through the building. On the north side you are drawn to the building, the path leads there, and there are steps up and a handrail, but it is only a bicycle store. If you get there and find that out you have missed the only entrance to the platform, a ramp up behind more bicycle stands. Once up the ramp, the barriers are in a position where if they were any further west, you would be on Boundary Road. And at a point where you are not in line with a train.

So, I wasted thirty seconds going to the wrong ‘entrance,’ and then the barriers forced me away from the train on the platform. I scuttle to the rear door and press the button, but the door doesn’t open, and I carry on scuttling to the next door, which doesn’t open either. I can see other doors further up the train that are still open, but they are too far for me to scuttle to to get on, and they close, and the train goes without me.

And then the next one isn’t for another forty minutes.

Aaaaarrrgggghhhh!

If you are going to have a cock eyed lay out of a station, put clearer signs up and don’t have the main path leading to a building if you can’t get through that building.

Twats.

Use Some C4 On It

It’s been a while since I wrote anything that wasn’t on our Leicester trip in June, and there’s still lots for me to write up on that, but it’s time for a little blast on random items.

The cat has developed a new habit at night. He waits until the bedroom light has gone out, gives it ten minutes and then screeches at ear splitting volume. I’m not sure where he’s hiding the megaphone he’s using but it needs finding and destroying. So, I haul myself out of bed and go down and open the back door. He’s sat on the chair and looks up all surprised as if to say, ‘why are you here and opening the door?’ he’ll come in, and then runs straight to the front door and miaows to be let out. Little furry bag of shite.

For some reason the radio in the kitchen was on Virgin radio. The announcement I heard when I walked into the kitchen was enough to make your blood run cold. “It’s the Chris Evans show…” NO, not that ginger cockwomble. “..hosted by Tom Allen…” jeez, if ever there was someone who didn’t have a voice for radio, especially at seven in the morning, it’s him. Night-time panel shows are fine, but not first thing in the morning. “…with Cinch.” No, no, no, no, and no again. Is there anyway those jokers haven’t got. It shows just how overpriced their cars must be if there are still solvent with the exorbitant amounts they spend on advertising and sponsorship.

At the end of June, someone drove into the side of the car at Pease Pottage roundabout when Helen was driving. Five weeks later the garage finally picked the car up to repair the damage to the driver’s side doors. And whilst it is being repaired, we have a courtesy car, which we picked up from Enterprise. It’s a Citroen C4. Which accurately describes what it needs putting under it and setting off.

Now, it’s well known that I hate driving, I’m shit at it, and it’s the most stressful thing I do. For the last seven years we’ve had a Kia Venga (on our second one), and I’ve got to the stage where I’m just about competent driving it and I don’t have cold sweats thinking about driving it.

From picking the car up, I drove to Asda, and then home, four miles maximum. Four miles of pure hell. I’m not adaptable when it comes to driving, it’s far too complicated to drive without having everything changed on you. And in the hire car everything terrifies me. Everything is too small. The wing mirrors aren’t much bigger than postage stamps. The rear-view mirror wouldn’t be that bad, but the view is out the ridiculously small rear window. Between the three of them, there is hardly any view behind you. Which makes the bloody thing impossible to park. No matter how I adjust the wing mirrors I can’t see what’s behind me, and in order to sit in the driver’s seat, the seat is so low to get my legs under the steering wheel that I can’t see the front of the car.

Then there are the pedals. The brake and the accelerator don’t move very far for full action, a couple of inches at most, whereas the clutch moves about a foot from top to bottom. You need two different length legs to be able to drive it. my right leg is at full stretch, and my leg knee is up around my ear somewhere. And there isn’t enough gap between pedals. I kept failing to deploy the clutch because my foot kept hitting the footrest next to it before it wasn’t fully down. And then when braking I’d step on my left foot trying to deploy the clutch at the same time. That’s when the very harsh brake isn’t flinging you through the miniscule front windscreen.

The gearstick is a lot higher up, and the action required to pull the sleeve up on it to engage reverse must have been devised by a sadist and can only be done successfully if you are a contortionist. Although you are taking your life in your hands reversing as due to the useless mirrors it is all guesswork as to what it behind you. And the display is off putting, it’s a flush, flat digital screen that is too big, they need to swap the sizes with that and the wing mirrors.

Helen drove to work this morning. Needless to say, she was fine and really liked it. Apparently, it is really comfortable. I’m assuming she must have been in a different car to the uncomfortable painful seats that I had when driving yesterday and being a passenger this morning. Everything aches after half an hour in it.

And then I get into work, and someone had used my desk. Which is fine if they leave it as they found it, it is a specific DSE set up. It has a hub that links screen, keyboard, and mouse so you just need to use the one USB port on your laptop to link it all up. But whichever moron was sat at my desk unplugged everything from the hub, I’m assuming to plug them in separately to their laptop. And I could do without having to reset everything on the chair as well.

I really am a grumpy old bastard.

And The Winner Of Prat Of The Year Is…

I have just four words to say to whoever was responsible for arranging roadworks on both junctions of the A/M23 to get off at Crawley this evening.

YOU

ARE

CUNT!!!

It was a nice evening, we’d gone out after work for a meal in Hove with Lianne, Kara, and Fiona, and were having a nice relaxing trundle up the A23 towards home when after the Handcross turn off the first of the roadwork signs appeared, the inside lane was going to be shut in 800 yards, then 600, 400, 200. But what they didn’t indicate was the turn off at the start of the M23 at Pease Pottage was completely shut.

So, we had to drive by, 10a only lets people from the village on going north, so we would have to come off at junction 10. Only to see signs that the B2110 – the road into Crawley at junction 10 was closed. Which meant another detour, away from Crawley into Copthorne, and then back again to come in through Pound Hill and past Three Bridges station.

Ten extra miles. No indication that J11 would be shut at any point along the A23. And no, I didn’t fucking miss it. I’m that annoying bastard who is trundling along doing sixty on the inside lane all the way. Plus, there had been no advance warning. Instead leaving drivers to find out only after it was too late to turn off before the Motorway (and hence possibly forcing some vehicles to break the law as they’re not allowed on the motorway, but there was no way off for them).

A warning sign mile earlier and we could have come off at Handcross. But no, why the fuck would anyone want to do that. I appreciate that evenings and nights are the best time to do roadworks, but if you are going to shut the only two ways into Crawley coming from the A23 at the same time then you have to tell people you stupid motherfuckers.

Changing Of The Guard

There appears to have been a changing of the guard outside Maccy D’s in town. For as long as I can remember there has been a homeless man staying in the inset doorway between Maccy D’s and Gregg’s. he wasn’t much younger than me and always came across as being surly and aggressive at any time of day.

This morning he had been replaced. A much younger man sat there, one without the accumulation of stuff the previous incumbent had. A less confrontational person. Nervous, as if shocked to find themselves in the position they are in. not making eye contact, and almost curled up upon themselves. Perhaps in fear of an attack or being moved on.

While I sat having my breakfast, he darted into Maccy D’s. in and out as quickly as possible to get something to eat with money given to him. Not wanting to leave his few meagre possessions out on the street unguarded for longer than absolutely necessary. The fear that someone may take them, or worse, throw them away. He came back out, checked to ensure nothing had gone and huddled back up on himself to have his muffin.

I finished my breakfast and dug into my pockets to see what change or cash I had on me, surprised to see a lot of pound coins in these almost cashless times. I gave it all to the new homeless man sitting there, knowing it could never be enough, but it was all I could give there and then. And he was grateful, and looked as if he was even younger than I first thought he was.

He may have replaced the long-term resident, but I sincerely hope that he is not going to be a long-term resident there himself.

Elsewhere the cash only, dodgy dealing, watch, phone, and sunglasses hut was up and running. They had customers this morning and I suppose it shouldn’t have been of any surprise that the customers were pensioners. The kings and queens of cash, the last bastions of notes and coins. Handing it over to the shady looking couple running the stand for a knock off watch or imitation sunglasses. None of them had any cash for the poor homeless man sat just yards from the tat they were buying. In fact, they wouldn’t even look at him.

I stopped, as I often do, at the small newsagents by the bus station. To get a couple of drinks to see me through the writing group session I was off to, and to pick up the weekly local paper – The Crawley Observer. There was no one else in the shop when I went in, and the shopkeeper was hiding under the counter playing with his phone.

I paid and then went to put the items I had bought into my bag. Only to be pretty much shooed out of the shop. Both by the impatience of the single customer who had come in behind me; and by the muppet behind the counter who wanted everyone out of the shop as quickly as possibly so he could go back to playing with his phone.

Neither of them prepared to wait as I struggled to put the three items into my bag. Instead I had to go outside and use the top of the bin as a staging point to get my drinks and paper into the bag.

I know I shouldn’t be shocked by that kind of impatient behaviour anymore, no one it would seem has the slightest modicum of patience any more. But it annoys the fuck out of me. Even if I am in a rush myself (rare because I’m obsessive about leaving early to give myself plenty of time to get where I’m going to) I will patiently wait in any queue there is. It’s a part of life.

People were there before you. They need to finish what they came to do before it becomes your turn. They don’t need to be hassled into hurrying up and possibly making a mistake, or into leaving something behind, or having something not quite packed away correctly so they lose it or break it on their way home or to their next destination.

So, people, generally the message is this. Stop being so fucking impatient, and just wait for your turn instead of being inconsiderate pieces of shit.

Eurgh Driving

Driving has been entertaining over the last week and a half. It started pre storms last Wednesday morning with a multiple car shunt at the Pyecombe junction on the southbound A23. The traffic had come to a near standstill just before I got there, and there was a police car flashing its blue lights parked in the outside lane just under the footbridge. Just beyond it was the first involved vehicle; a mini pointing the wrong way in the outside lane.

Then on the layby a car had gone over the plastic bollards and in the side of a parked Co-op lorry. Two more cars and a van were lined up on the inside with varying degrees of damage. Then there was a gap to another car which had been side swiped and had what looked like frosted glass on the driver’s side. Then the final crashed car was in the outside lane stuck in the barrier.

I had been out extra early that morning and so wasn’t delayed by much, but as each member of my team came into the office the time taken to get through that junction had increased, and for one, their sat-nav had sent them over Ditchling Beacon instead.

The main surprise is that this doesn’t happen more often. That junction is like the Wacky Races. Too fast, too close, switching lanes as if Mike Read is screaming “Runaround” at them, and of course, not an indicator in use for miles around in every direction.

If I believed there were such things as imaginary cloud gods, then I would be tempted to say a prayer each time I approached the junction each morning.

Sunday. I was going to pick up Helen’s mum from Storrington and was heading around the outside of Horsham, just getting to the terrible Tesco at Broadbridge Heath when I became embroiled in another Wacky Races day. More than a dozen souped up German shitheaps came flying past on all sides, changing lanes without any hint of using mirrors or indicators; racing each other and being dicks to all other road users.

For some reason they had all pulled into the Shell garage at the far side of Horsham, and as I passed, I could hear them all revving up, so once past that roundabout I stopped in the first layby and rang the police (who didn’t seem to give a shit). Because I’m a twat like that.

The lights were out at the A24/A272 junction, which meant fun and games for all as without the lights working it seemed as if everyone had forgotten the rules of who has right of way at a major junction. By the time I was coming back from dropping Helen’s mum off at night the lights still weren’t working. In addition, the rain and wind were closing in.

What I don’t understand is why people find it necessary to try and drive in my boot. I’m only going 50, because it’s a sensible speed in the weather conditions, and the bouts of aquaplaning every half a mile or so due to all the surface water. It’s dual carriageway all the way. If you don’t like the speed I’m driving at, then please feel free to fuck off into the outside lane and overtake me. I’m not going to go faster because you want to be in my car with me.

Then for the last week the road I usually take once I come off the A27 to get to work has been closed three out of four mornings. They are resurfacing the road on the hill down towards Hangleton windmill. They are supposed to be finished at 7am, and annoyingly the road is open for those coming out of Hove, but I’ve had to get back on the A27 and come off at the next junction as I don’t know how to get across to the office if I go down the road their diversion signs are pointing along.

Thursday morning was the worst. It was chaos all round. No sooner had I got onto the A23 than the traffic came to a grinding halt. Turns out a truck had broken down in the inside lane between the turn off for Handcross and the services there. And as usual, no one could cope with the letting people in thing when it went from three lanes to two.

Getting off the A27 was fun. I came off at the usual junction, but the roundabout was gridlock as the road to Hove was closed. I made it around and back onto the A27, but the queue to come off at the next junction started where I came on. The queue carried on all the way off the A27 and down to Sainsbury’s. And once past there, the left turn towards the office was closed off as well, so I had to go right and then follow the road around the one-way system to come back towards the office. Only for the road that runs parallel to it to have resurfacing work as well, and the first five side roads I would usually turn up were all closed. What is usually half an hour took an hour and a quarter and was an extra five miles.

Friday night isn’t normally that bad, but all I’d seen all day when flicking in and out of social media were messages about long queues at petrol stations, and some running out of fuel. And yes, upon leaving work there were big queues at the two petrol stations I passed in Hove. So, I ended up stopping at the Texaco one on the A23 after Pyecombe as it was empty. I was nearly on fumes and couldn’t risk having to drive around Crawley trying to fill up over the weekend.

Even so, they were out of diesel, but they did have petrol and I was able to fill up and then I took my life in my hands trying to get back on the A23 there, as that stretch is one that everyone treats as if it is the downslope of Eau Rouge at Spa.

So, the panic buying has started. It never ceases to amaze me at the moronic behaviour. As, to be honest, having a fuel shortage is going to be the least of our worries if the Ukraine situation worsens. No one needs to drive when we’re all hiding in nuclear shelters.