Chris Rea’s “Driving Home For Christmas” is currently being played in shops, supermarkets and on the radio.
The idea for his considerably less jaunty driving song came to Chris while gridlocked in traffic on the M25.
However, a friend of mine claims the M5 South is the real ‘Road To Hell’ after he and his wife were stuck – along with thousands of others – in Friday afternoon traffic for six hours, after a lorry fire closed two lanes.
They were headed to a Somerset hotel that’s part of a chain of resorts that rhyme with Horner Pleasure.
The journey time from their south Wales home normally takes two hours. Knowing there’d been delays, they didn’t leave until 3pm to give the traffic time to clear.
Unfortunately, they hit the traffic at the Clevedon junction, crawled along for an hour, then came to a dead stop.
Optimistically, his wife remarked “Well, at least it’s not raining!”, just before the Heavens opened.
An hour later, when they still hadn’t moved, she remarked, “Well, at least it’s still daylight”, just before it got dark.
They started to move very slowly around 7.30pm and, although they needed a comfort stop, the long queue into Sedgemoor services was at a standstill.
They eventually got off the M5 around 9.30pm, but the A358 was so poorly lit they couldn’t read any signs.
Their phone sat nav proved useless, as first it sent them into an industrial estate and then up, what my friend described as ‘the narrowest, scariest country lane I’ve ever travelled down’.
Now hopelessly lost, they made a 10-point turn and, thanks to a lucky encounter with two helpful locals who pointed them to the right road, they arrived at their hotel at 11pm. The kitchens were closed and the entertainment had long finished.
Feeling shattered, they had a quick nightcap in their room and swore they’d never travel the road to Hell again – then realised that, in order to get home on Monday, they’d have to.
I’d tell you what happened on their return journey, but you, like them, have suffered enough!

Let’s face it, coffee shops are no longer just about coffee.
These magical establishments have brewed their way into our social lives, transforming into modern-day town squares where friendships bloom, business deals brew, and first dates percolate with possibility.
Take a look around any bustling café, and you’ll see it all: the brainstormers, fuelled by caffeine and crumpled notepads; the giggling friends catching up over caramel lattes; the lone philosopher, staring into an Americano like it holds the secrets of the universe.
There’s a seat for everyone at the table of life, provided you don’t hog the power outlet.
Why are coffee shops such happy places?
For one, they smell incredible, a mix of fresh pastries, roasted beans, and that faint air of productivity that inspires even the laziest among us to pick up a pen or open a laptop.
Secondly, they create a space where the mundane melts away.
The soft hum of espresso machines and clinking mugs creates a white noise of contentment, fostering both deep conversations and comfortable silences.
More importantly, coffee shops are where big ideas are born and little joys are celebrated.
From casual chats that lighten your day to impromptu networking that might land your next gig, these spaces offer more than caffeine, they offer connection.
So next time you sip your flat white, raise your cup to the café.
It’s not just a pit stop, it’s a meeting ground for a happier, more caffeinated world.

People have varying opinions about sequels.
We could have managed without “Beyond The Poseidon Adventure”, but “The Godfather Part 2” is regarded as superior to the original.
This is a sequel to last week’s admission that I find many Hollywood stars who appear on chat shows pretty much indistinguishable.
As Max Miller used to say, “Now here’s a funny thing!”, because just after I’d submitted it, I watched two chat shows from two different eras and the difference between them was immense.
On Graham Norton’s sofa, Bruce Springsteen and Bill Bailey were obviously recognisable, but the two American actresses sat between them were unknown to me.
They were all there to ‘sell’ something and Graham skilfully manoeuvred his way around them all, ensuring they were each given equal attention and nobody felt left out.
The following night I watched a 1980 Parkinson show on which Hollywood actress Kim Novak promoted the film that tempted her out of retirement, “The Mirror Crack’d”, which she mentioned briefly.
Although willing to discuss her Hollywood years, she was more interested in discussing the animals she looked after at her home in Carmel, California.
Interestingly, Kim and her contemporary Brigitte Bardot, both left acting to look after animals – as did Doris Day.
Someone should write a thesis on this trait!
Kim (still with us at 91) had a shortish career from choice, but will be forever remembered for Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” and ‘that’ dance with William Holden in “Picnic”, as they swayed to George Duning’s sensuous blending of his “Theme From Picnic” with “Moonglow” . . .
Trust me; it’s worth checking out on YouTube.
Another of Parky’s guests was eminent* historian AJP Taylor who had nothing to promote and was just there to talk, which he did with quiet authority.
The difference between that and the plug-fest the night before was that nobody was ‘hard selling’ anything.
*Eminent means ‘respected in their particular sphere’ so it’s unfair that historians are referred to as ‘eminent’ but plumbers and electricians aren’t.
Because when a pipe bursts or all your lights go out, you’re not going to phone for an emergency historian are you?

Ah, Black Friday weekend, the time of year when the lines between sanity and shopping blur, and the true spirit of the season is revealed in the form of discount-hungry warriors.
Personally, I saved a small fortune this year by doing the unthinkable: I stayed far, far away from any store.
Yes, the secret to my financial triumph was as simple as avoiding the chaos altogether.
But, fear not, dear readers!
I didn’t completely miss out on the spectacle.
From my cosy perch, I had front-row seats to a comedy of errors that played out right outside my window.
Picture this: a middle-aged man, decked out in tracksuit bottoms (the kind that says, “I’ve given up on life, but I still have my dignity somewhere”), brown leather shoes that surely went out of style with disco, and a duffle coat that looked like it belonged in a vintage shop.
Our hero was valiantly attempting to wrestle a 55-inch flat-screen TV into the back of a taxi parked outside a well-known retail store.
The taxi driver, a seasoned veteran of the Black Friday battlefield, looked on with a mix of amusement and disbelief as the man insisted that the TV would fit.
Spoiler alert: it did, but only after a highly questionable amount of shoving, grunting, and a few prayers to the shopping gods.
Meanwhile, the man’s wife stood nearby, arms crossed and with a glare that could melt steel.
Her patience had apparently worn thinner than the holiday deals.
“You’re kidding me, right? You expect me to take the bus home while you play captain of the taxi?” she bellowed, her voice echoing off nearby storefronts.
With a huff that could’ve blown the roof off a bingo hall, she declared, “That’s it! I’m off to play bingo, and you can stuff that TV where the sun doesn’t shine, you selfish pig!”
Ah, nothing says holiday spirit quite like a good old-fashioned spat over electronics, right?
As the taxi pulled away, the man’s dreams of a cinematic experience at home seemed to fade into the distance, much like his wife’s goodwill.
I couldn’t help but wonder if they were the only couple to start the festive season on such a tumultuous note.
I mean, who needs a Hallmark movie when you have real-life dramas unfolding in front of you?
In conclusion, while my wallet remains intact thanks to my strategic avoidance of the shopping frenzy, I’ve come to appreciate the unintentional comedy that Black Friday brings.
So, here’s to the brave souls out there battling for bargains, and to the couples whose love can withstand even the most absurd of shopping sagas.
May your TVs fit in taxis, your shopping lists be short, and your bingo nights be filled with joy (and perhaps a little less drama). Happy holidays!

Once again, this article comes to you courtesy of two different trains of thought, neither owned by Transport For Wales!
Which explains why it isn’t overcrowded with words, arrived on the editor’s desk on time, and there are no leaves on any of my lines.
My first train of thought is pulling into the station . . .
Not being a ‘telly addict’, my TV is switched off more than it’s on.
I like using my ‘little grey cells’ on creative or productive things.
But, there are times I need to relax in front of the telly.
The more channels and streaming services I have at my disposal, the harder it is to find something entertaining to watch, like an intelligent ‘who-dun-it’.
That’s partly because many modern who-dun-its are remakes (or in modern parlance ‘re-boots’) of old who-dun-its. Invariably, within 10 minutes I realise there’s no point me sitting through to the finale because I remember who-dun-what-to-whom-and-why.
Look! The second train’s just arrived . . .
I know it’s an age thing with me, but many American leading men (heroes, if you like) on TV and film today are anonymous faces to me.
Obviously not high-profile stars who’ve been around a long time, like Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Denzel Washington or Al Pacino.
While I always recognised Ryan O’Neal, I don’t know Ryan Gosling from Ryan Reynolds.
If actors Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, Chris Pine and Chris Pratt walked into my living room, I couldn’t tell one Chris from another.
I’d be too busy complaining on the phone to the bloke who fitted my front door locks.
Watch old films on TV and you’ll immediately recognize Kirk Douglas, Sidney Poitier, Tony Curtis, James Stewart, Robert Mitchum . . . even the ‘newer’ lot like Harrison Ford, Robert Redford and Sylvester Stallone. They all had distinctive faces.
It doesn’t help that many Hollywood leading men hide their features under thick beards.
I like Graham Norton, but one night I suddenly realised his Friday chat show often features actors I don’t know, talking about their latest film or TV show that I’ll never watch.
Is there a new John Wayne film at the pictures this week?

I don’t know about you, but the recent cold snap has left me feeling like a popsicle!
Seriously, at this rate, I’ll be unearthing my thermal underwear from its hibernation since last winter’s holiday.
On Saturday night, I took a stroll down Wind Street in Swansea, and let me tell you, the fashion choices were baffling.
There I was, bundled up like a yeti, while the majority of the nightlife crowd sported bare legs and flimsy tops.
I swear, I saw a woman wearing a crop top that was more ‘crop’ than ‘top’, clearly, she had mistaken “chilly” for “chic.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I admire a good sense of style, but come on!
When did practicality become the ugly stepsister of fashion?
I’ve reached the age where comfort trumps catwalk looks.
I’d rather rock a cosy sweater than freeze my buns off in some haute couture nightmare.
So, here’s my plea to the fashionistas of Swansea: can we swap out the flimsy for the fuzzy just this once?
After all, nothing says ‘I’m fabulous’ quite like a well-worn thermal onesie.
Please tell me I’m not alone in this pursuit of warmth over woe.
If it comes down to fashion statements or frostbite, I choose to be the warm and happy one, preferably with a hot cocoa in hand!