D
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The story begins on a cold, dark autumnal morn...
As part of helping out my southern cousins that can't even afford petrol for their V8 such is the poverty south of the Watford gap, I decided to buy a C43 AMG to help a Londoner.
I rise at 05.00 hours to prepare for my journey down south, two cups of tea and four Weetabix later and I am raring to get on the road.
Start on the M18, join the M1 and away I go, and as soon as I leave my beloved Yorkshire the heavens open...
Anyway, I'm soon eating away at the 170 miles with my Happy Mondays pumping out of the stereo, and as I get about 60 miles from my destination there is a 50mph zone which has obviously been put there to help people in the south save on fuel, it can't be because of roadworks there was not a vizi vest in sight.
This troubled me somewhat; the government is that worried about the finances of those in the south-east that they have had to resort to traffic management so people can get their best possible mpg figures. It was during this slow cruise that I noticed that the northbound traffic seemed to be all travelling at approximately 120mph which was puzzling, but I would find out why later in the day.
The 50 zone ends before I know it and I'm back up to a good steady pace, and before long I'm exiting at junction four.
Now for my fellow northerners, please be aware before reading on; it's not pretty.
The first roundabout that I encounter is a free-for-all, it is near-anarchy and when I try and give way to my right, I'm berated by those cars behind me. One of them gesticulated that I should be shaking cocktails for a living, which confused me a little because everyone knows that us rock hard northerners only drink warm bitter with whisky chasers.
I have to use all of my savvy to navigate away from these irritable and strange people, but I soon encounter more as I enter Harrow; it seems as though no-one has been taught how to use indicators and people simply pull out of side roads without looking where they are going causing me to slam on the brakes on more than one occasion. There also seems to be a lemming sort of club where if you are wearing a strange little white cap, you are allowed to just walk across the road without looking at the traffic.
Finally, having aged about five years, I make it to my destination unscathed which is a miracle.
The transaction of purchasing the C43 passes without incident, although on the test drive I had a BMW driver honking his horn behind me, again advising me to shake a cocktail. The seller was a nice chap, it was such a shame to see him living in this Mad Max-style world, not being able to afford petrol to put in the V8 (it's something us northerners take for granted). They were so poor, they couldn't even afford enough milk to make me a cup of tea, I went to the shop and bought them a four pinter, it was the least I could do to help out my fellow man.
My mind turned to me exiting this hell-hole, so I asked for a better guide to getting to the M1 and back to the bosom of my beautiful county. I'm given a few back roads to follow and before you know it, I'm on the M1.
The drama hasn't ended though, oh no, people are in such a rush to get out of London, there are traffic jams galore, not to mention three car crashes before I pass the M25 turning.
As I covered the miles, the sun started to shine again and the traffic flowed a lot better and before I knew it, I was the M18. I opened the window to breathe in the wonderful smell of Yorkshire and all was well again.
I told my wife all about my experiences and we've both agreed that there should be more media coverage on the poverty and destitution that is right under our nose here in the U.K.
I have this message for all of you Londoners; you hang in there, keep working hard and maybe one day you'll be able to afford to move up here where the sun is always shining.
As part of helping out my southern cousins that can't even afford petrol for their V8 such is the poverty south of the Watford gap, I decided to buy a C43 AMG to help a Londoner.
I rise at 05.00 hours to prepare for my journey down south, two cups of tea and four Weetabix later and I am raring to get on the road.
Start on the M18, join the M1 and away I go, and as soon as I leave my beloved Yorkshire the heavens open...
Anyway, I'm soon eating away at the 170 miles with my Happy Mondays pumping out of the stereo, and as I get about 60 miles from my destination there is a 50mph zone which has obviously been put there to help people in the south save on fuel, it can't be because of roadworks there was not a vizi vest in sight.
This troubled me somewhat; the government is that worried about the finances of those in the south-east that they have had to resort to traffic management so people can get their best possible mpg figures. It was during this slow cruise that I noticed that the northbound traffic seemed to be all travelling at approximately 120mph which was puzzling, but I would find out why later in the day.
The 50 zone ends before I know it and I'm back up to a good steady pace, and before long I'm exiting at junction four.
Now for my fellow northerners, please be aware before reading on; it's not pretty.
The first roundabout that I encounter is a free-for-all, it is near-anarchy and when I try and give way to my right, I'm berated by those cars behind me. One of them gesticulated that I should be shaking cocktails for a living, which confused me a little because everyone knows that us rock hard northerners only drink warm bitter with whisky chasers.
I have to use all of my savvy to navigate away from these irritable and strange people, but I soon encounter more as I enter Harrow; it seems as though no-one has been taught how to use indicators and people simply pull out of side roads without looking where they are going causing me to slam on the brakes on more than one occasion. There also seems to be a lemming sort of club where if you are wearing a strange little white cap, you are allowed to just walk across the road without looking at the traffic.
Finally, having aged about five years, I make it to my destination unscathed which is a miracle.
The transaction of purchasing the C43 passes without incident, although on the test drive I had a BMW driver honking his horn behind me, again advising me to shake a cocktail. The seller was a nice chap, it was such a shame to see him living in this Mad Max-style world, not being able to afford petrol to put in the V8 (it's something us northerners take for granted). They were so poor, they couldn't even afford enough milk to make me a cup of tea, I went to the shop and bought them a four pinter, it was the least I could do to help out my fellow man.
My mind turned to me exiting this hell-hole, so I asked for a better guide to getting to the M1 and back to the bosom of my beautiful county. I'm given a few back roads to follow and before you know it, I'm on the M1.
The drama hasn't ended though, oh no, people are in such a rush to get out of London, there are traffic jams galore, not to mention three car crashes before I pass the M25 turning.
As I covered the miles, the sun started to shine again and the traffic flowed a lot better and before I knew it, I was the M18. I opened the window to breathe in the wonderful smell of Yorkshire and all was well again.
I told my wife all about my experiences and we've both agreed that there should be more media coverage on the poverty and destitution that is right under our nose here in the U.K.
I have this message for all of you Londoners; you hang in there, keep working hard and maybe one day you'll be able to afford to move up here where the sun is always shining.
