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Chariots of Ire
by Ray Fuller

For that national convention, I’d give little thanks, 
Namely communal holidays tied up with banks. 
Like infantrymen jump to the bugler’s shrill call, 
When they down computers, then so must we all. 
And like lemmings to water, we rush to the coast, 
A display of conforming of which you could boast. 
With inevitable consequence – quite certain I am 
That we don’t end at seaside, but up in a jam. 
Then it’s ‘snarled-up at Wapping’ and ‘backed up at Brent’, 
Vehicular standstill throughout County Kent. 
They start honking and hooting and ranting and raving 
And shaking their fists – I don’t think they’re waving. 
They’re abandoning cars on a choked-up M2, 
All fed up just sitting there stopped in the queue. 
It’s a twenty-mile tailback on M25, 
They’re air-dropping food to keep drivers alive. 
The AA say ‘sorry we cannot assist’, 
From our journey the police urge us all to desist. 
Alternative routes cannot e’en be suggested 
For they’re without doubt, yes you guessed it, congested. 
But it’s holiday time and the weather is fine, 
So we’ve jumped in our cars, and joined a long line: 
Immutable English vacation obsession 
To eke out our leisure in endless procession. 
I know it seems pointless when no-one can move, 
But it just goes to show how much our cars we love. 
And it proves the great truth for which sages did strive: 
What’s important ’s the journey, and not to arrive.