The Great Blizzard of 2005
"They've had four inches of snow in Winchester."*
To which I reply: "Have they bollocks."
Foolishly heeding dire warnings of snow, ice, white-outs and flesh-devouring mythical Arctic beasts, I set out for work this morning at the equally mythical 5a.m. to drive the 100 or so miles to Reading at the heart of the Tundra.
Not a flake. It rained a bit around Southampton, but that could equally have been seagull's piss, and the whole affair was only made marginally less dull by the obligatory bone-crunching crash on the opposite carriageway at Basingstoke. I can see their point, though:
Any road up - it was a damn good thing I gave an extra two hours for the drive. I am now two hours early for work. Arse.
* The laws of comedy clearly state than any mention of "four inches" should be followed immediately by a nob gag. Huh. Huh huh. He said "four inches". Huh. Huh huh.
The long arm of the law finally caught up with my father-in-law "Iron Boots" Ken as a speeding ticket arrived in the post the other day. However, he can avoid the fine and the three points on his licence by attending a half-day course on speeding. Basically, he's going to sit in some room with a bunch of Burberry-clad boy racers getting lectured by some desk-bound copper on the dangers of driving too fast.
His crime? Caught by a speed camera doing 36mph in a 30 zone. At 5.30 in the morning. On a moped. Stirling Moss would be turning in his grave.*
*If he was dead.