I was on my way back from Belgium on Sunday, car full of booze and chocolate (obviously).
As you go on the exit road from the A16 to the port, everything slows down.
"Bollocks", you think.
Anyway, what is happening is that the lorries have to go to the right, cars to the left. All of a sudden, there are Plod all over the place. Like the Keystone Cops. Cops chasing folk one way, cops chasing folk the other.
The folk they are chasing are the migrants you've heard about. Hundreds of them. From Syria and stuff. A few of them slow the lorries down. A few more try to jump on the ones behind.
It's lunatic. Chaos. The Plod have no idea what to do. The migrants seem to think that if they cross over to England it will all be good.
All it needs is Yaketty Sax. It's mental.
Look. These folk are just folk like me. I was born in England so I can go back to it. FML. I'd rather be there than Syria, I guess.
You know what? These people are me, but born somewhere else. They have done nothing wrong, unless being born is wrong doing.
I despair. I don't know what to do, but you carry on worrying about your gutter needing mending.
Anyway, I chucked a couple of boxes of chocolates out of the window. I bet the Plod nick them.