Last week, a trip to Leeds was (according to the AA Route Finder) a simple matter of an hour and forty-five minutes in a car. Bearing in mind that these AA reports assume a rather lowly 50mph, there's often room to make up some time. How cunting frustrating, then, to be trapped in a transit of three and a quarter hours for this fucking journey. Yes, that's right! Why did this happen? Some cunt decided to shut the A19 last Wednesday. Now, I've no wish to encourage death or severe injury on anyone, but there is only one acceptable basis for the road being closed - that the carnage and outcome of the accident was horrendous enough to leave both lanes of the carriageway impassable. If that was not the case, then we have yet another example of the CIC deciding to close a road unnecessarily. [CIC = Cunts In Charge, if you don't know]. I rather suspect that it was easier all round for the hi-viz festooned cunts in chevron-laden vans to put some cones out and close a road than to work around the problem/accident.
The 'diversion' signed were a fucking joke, and the gridlock that arose at the roundabout (after a painful crawl off the main road lasting ages) was awful. The signage was pathetic and the diversion options were ludicrously shite. I ended up taking a road that was a cunt in itself, and then came across further cunts who'd decided to resurface the road. Even this was a nightmare; far from proper resurfacing input, the useless arses were merrily sprinkling chippings on to hot black glue. The tailback was simply dire, and the delay significant. As for the final quality of the road after this useless attempt at resurfacing, I can honestly confirm it will be (and by now fucking well is) cunting shit! Why does the UK highways agency think that grey chippings is the way forward? Abysmal cunting input by cunts who fucking delay everyone for no cunting good reason.
I got to Leeds after a journey of three hours and fifteen minutes. So, an hour and a half extra in my car, sweating, and all for a meeting of 50 minutes, after which I had the return leg. By now, the mess driving the other way was history and irrelevant to the return route, so just 2 hours more. Five and a quarter hours in a car to have a 50 minutes face-to-face meeting. Skype has to be the way forward!
I am sure the insurance companies are now well equipped to haggle over the mess that arose on the A19. The cost of their knowledge was disruption to the journeys of 2000 fucking motorists who didn't drive like a cunt and/or crash!
Towards the end of the week, I had to travel to Scotland. I took a different route from that of my previous visit, to add some variety to my experience, and I was rewarded with a trouble-free and relatively traffic-free journey. I knew I was heading in the right direction when a 4x4 vehicle came towards me from the other direction, and its registration plate was: K1 LTS . After a very early start and a long drive before a meeting, it wasn't until gone 2pm that I had anything to eat. The McDonald's meal was adequate for my needs, although the stupid number of kids in the place was unnecessary. There ought to be a health warning about excessive consumption of burgers but I suppose they are probably amongst the healthier foodstuffs consumed by the Scots!
The Travelodge was a cunt to find, in the dark. Oh, I could get within its environs without much issue. Even my useless Garmin satnav was able to get me close enough. However, Travelodges are renowned for being not quite where they're supposed to be, and having signs no bigger than a post-it. This one was no exception. I knew I was close, but with poor visibility and local lighting, I had to phone the reception for directions for the last few hundred yards. Needless to say that the girl who answered was of no help. Not really her fault - it was her first day in the job. Still, a loitering Jock was able to assist; he came to the phone and after a quick verbal exchange said he come to get me and guide me in. Turned out he was a taxi/minibus driver who was at the reception, and he'd nothing better to do. So it was that two minutes later, he flashed his lights and I followed him the 400yds. The Travelodge did indeed have a small sign at the end of the short road in which it was located. The sign, though, was visible only from one side of the carriageway (which had a concrete central divide) and you had to be driving in a certain direction to have any chance of seeing it. I was going to fail on this score before I ever left home!
I checked in, after a day that had included six-and-a-half hours in a car. I was thus not ready for any unnecessary issues or delays. The first of them arose upon my attempt to enter the corridor that included rooms 20-40. The keycard was supposed to make the light turn green and allow the door handle to be turned. However, I saw no change in colour when I slipped the plastic into the slot. Fucking unnecessary bollocks. Annoyed, I returned to the main reception to highlight the deficiency in the card and the system. I was issued with a replacement card, and walked back to the door from the main foyer and bar area to the corridor. I slid the keycard in, and waited.
Behind me, an Asian chap appeared, carrying a small carrier bag and a slip of paper. He hovered before speaking:
"I'm looking for room something-or-other." [He did not actually say 'something or other' but gave a room number - I just cannot remember what it was. In fact, I was do disinterested that I never properly registered the number he gave to be able to forget it afterwards.]
"Oh." I carried on considering whether to kick the door down, or perhaps try the card the other way round in the slot. The bloke was still there. I turned around again, and saw he was delivering a take-away. I did not think this at the time, but have at other times (as well as now) thought it rather odd that it's called a take-away when it is being delivered by the establishment from which it was ordered. If one does not arrive to collect food and 'take it away', how can the food be deemed a 'take-away' then?
I realised the chap was waiting for me - giving me time to attend to the door entry issue. I did not appreciate why, but did think it an odd approach, because if the food was for me, and by sheer fucking coincidence he'd happened to approach me and match me to the room from which the order was placed, I'd have fucking said so, paid, and taken the bag. As it was, I did nothing. I looked at the door again, so as not to encourage him, but then felt compelled to offer some minor attention.
"I'm looking for room something-or-other." [ditto the above note]
"What's that got to do with me? I've only just arrived, and I'm trying to get through this door to my room!"
"Oh, sorry." Off he went, in search of someone hungry who had a keycard and probable access to room something-or-other.
At reception, I announced my third arrival of the evening with: "I am getting very annoyed now." It turned out to be more than enough to encourage a flurry of attention, and the issue of a replacement room as well as a new card; I was to use room 119 instead of 30. I felt this was a substantial enough change to defeat the shortcomings of the card programming system and/or the door to the ground floor corridor. I left the reception, successfully went to the first floor and found my room at the far end of a long corridor. Hurrah.
After changing, I headed back to the main area, where I knew I could get some food. I passed a chap in the corridor, who was putting his plastic card in and out of the slot on the door to his room. I let him know the machine was fucked, and learnt that after 10 hours driving a lorry, this was all he needed. As he'd endured a driving stint far longer than my own (53.85% longer in fact) I felt some sympathy for him. He followed me down, and he went to reception while I went to the bar.
The bar menu was disappointing. The biggest section was headed "Starters & Nibbles" but I was not in the mood to start nibbling. I was informed by the woman behind the bar that she had no goujons, and after I took a good look at her, I nodded in agreement. There were four 'side' options, and a single option for afters - a "Lemon Meringue Ice Cream Cake". I thought this was taking the piss, as this one entry was trying to overcompensate, with claims to be a Meringue, an Ice Cream and a Cake. To top it all, the description managed to include a 'biscuit base' as further enticement. This left the actual menu with just three entries for proper portions. These were pizzas; Four Cheese, Chicken Supreme and Pepperoni. With mild enthusiasm, I asked for a pepperoni pizza to go with my pint of lager, and then went to sit and watch some sport on TV.
A couple of minutes later, Morag (I've no idea what her real name was) came over from the direction of the kitchen and announced there was no pepperoni pizza available. The massively limited choice of food was now being further reduced because some cunt had forgotten to order one of the three pizzas on the menu.
Morag: "What would you like on it instead?"
TMWSC: "Surprise me, put anything on it, whatever toppings you can rustle up."
Morag: "I'm sorry, but they come ready made. There's Cheese or Chicken."
Cheese? Every cunting pizza has got cheese on it, so this was hardly an option that filled me with glee or hope for the future of mankind! As for chicken (or 'Chicken Supreme' as I saw, when I looked at the menu after Morag's departure) I have never chosen a chicken pizza in my life. Chicken does not belong on a fucking pizza. Still, with no wish to rely solely on cheese, I was forced to go along with the fowl choice.
TMWSC: "I'll have chicken, then."
Morag: "It's very nice."
I'll be the judge of that, I thought, as Morag made her way to the kitchen to heat a pizza. When it came, I was not disappointed . . . . . I was fucking gutted. Gutted that I'd not eaten elsewhere. I had been of the opinion that chicken should not reside on top of a pizza, and after consumption of 60% of the food, I had that opinion reinforced to the pint where I'll never again place such an order. Stodge with chicken on it - and certainly NOT fucking 'Supreme'. Luckily there were seven sachets of ketchup available, and these helped me down the food. I considered writing to Travelodge to complain. The small menu card featured a photo on the front of a Pepperoni Pizza, and inside, one photo of a starter - Goujons. With both unavailable, I wondered whether the third photo was also a tease; it was of the 4-in-1 dessert which would most certainly have been off the menu if I'd bothered to ask for it.
I drove the very short distance the next morning to a meeting which proved less fruitful than it should have, but afterwards, with the collection of information gleaned from three prospective clients, I headed south, sweating in what was turning into a hot day. I took offence at the overhead signs. The first stated: Watch Your Speed. I looked at my dial, decided I was happy with 110mph, but then thought that despite the warning, I really ought to look forward and keep my eyes on the road! I am joking, of course. I was actually doing 70mph. What a pointless fucking sign. Further on, there was another: Tyre Safety Check Your Tread. I considered that for this, I'd not manage while moving, and that it would be contrary to the directive in terms of safety anyway. I felt suitably advised by some cunt who no doubt feels better if he/she send silly messages to drivers. I expected the next one to say: Don't Crash. However, I was disappointed, and all I came across was a section of roadworks, at the start of which (on a flyover) was a police van checking speeds. In Scotland, there must be a nervousness about people getting to where they're going too quickly. Instead of the standard 50mph limit in the section of road that was reduced to 2 lanes, it was 40mph. Fortunately I'd slowed enough on seeing the 40mph sign; actually, I simultaneously saw the police van, so I cannot claim to be too good. I was reminded of another overhead sign I'd seen on the M1 a couple of weeks earlier, which I thought had been put in place by an eighteenth century vicar, because I read it as: PRAY SLOW DOWN. In fact, there was an 'S' at the beginning.
I stopped at Gretna Green, to make a couple of calls, and see what I could get from the service area by way of drink and food. The place was fucking mobbed! I managed to find one of the very few parking spaces, and spent ten minutes on the phone. A wander into the building was a pointless exercise, as I wandered straight back again. The queues were ludicrous, for everything. I aborted. Back on the motorway, I was pleased to see the illiterate Eddie Stobart was (bewilderingly) still "Delivering Sustainable Solutions", as the big lettering announced down the side of a trailer. I wondered if the solutions came in plastic drums.
Four and a quarter hours after setting off, I arrived home. I really must try to find a better alternative to Travelodge for my next stay - but as it's the cheapest option (usually) I may not have much choice. As for long distance driving, it's a mug's game. Still, pro-rata, the three calls in Scotland was more efficiently covered than the one in Leeds, in terms of time and driving!
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