The A1 is officially the worst road ever, since crappy roads were invented, it takes the No-bell Crappy award for the most impossible road to drive on ever. I don’t mind leaving a house party half way through to rescue a cyclopse, but I do mind shitty roads. The A1 has a habit of throwing roundabouts at you in the middle of nowhere, then requiring you to turn, in a cone wonderland without regard for the fact you were doing 70mph on a dual carriageway. The only thing I can liken it to is being dipped in tar and then asked to navigate a maze on rocket skates. Its downright confusing, dark and evil.
Speaking of dark and evil: Lauren.
No wait. Speaking of dark and evil I got a new tshirt this weekend at the Devildriver / God Forbid gig. God forbid blew my little titties off as I moshed, so I purcahsed the tshirt with the wonderfully antisocial “Metal as Fuck” slogan. I look forward to wearing it in a club that has a very strict door policy. Anyhoo, enough of that tangent, back to our story.
The joy of the A1 ride was Ryan and Sarah kindly joined me. Whilst me and Ryan set the world right with our stunningly accurate observations of humanity and culture, Sarah kept it real like only she can. Offering directions, and when we needed it most; hope. Allow me to elaborate. Roughly 20 miles into the journey we noted how horror movie like our plight was. Our dialogue for this film was witty and had recurring themes and jokes. Then we got lost.
Then Ryan couldn’t pee (Pee anxiety struck in a laybay on the A1 somewhere between doncaster and a tree). It was dark, old school dark. The kind of dark where you can’t hear anything but your car indicator ticking from inside the car and your hands look like impliments off doom. An indicator casts an eerie blinking shadow on a windy hill when you are as exposed as to have your hands and your man part and happen to be pissing.
This would all be fine if we weren’t lost, and very frustrated at being lost. It wasn’t Cyclopses fault, he had done his upmost to inform us where to be. The guy that gave us directions to Tuxford told us it was “just past doncaster”. Tuxford is just past doncaster in the same way North Korea is just past Hull.
After two hours of travelling up and down the A1 and loosing all hope for existence we see a sign for Tuxford… and go sailing past it. Possibly the most bittersweet moment in the existence of humanity. On the A1. Finding Tuxford wasn’t hard after that, but finding the address was obscene. We found 82, 84 and 86… but was Number 81 there? Noooo? What do you do in a situation like that? Call the RAC? Join the circus? No! Bellow out of the window at the top of your lungs: “Bbbuyauhaaaaaaaah!”… In the hope said Cyclopse will hear you. Well you do if your name is Ryan
Being past the point of frustration was a given by now. The closed motorway exit on the way home enforcing a 10 mile detour couln’t hold me back. I was heading to a party where everyone was drunk to find the one sober guy and play video games. I succeeded. I retire to pastures old. I am a hero in my own bedtime. So then a weird woman knocks at the door of mine and Diego’s apartment and claims to have been kicked out of another apartment and need a taxi to Hebbden Bridge. Surreal just doesn’t cut it.
She reminded me of something Ryan said the week earlier whilst we were lost in Birmingham. Birmingham is the only city with URGH and MING in the name. This is for good reason to warn off travellers. I now know this.
*Guitar interlute, ejaculation and goodnight*
Until next time. I have been ranting, and this will never be read all the way through. Ahh tedious inevetibility, I salute you.