On the Covid-19 Highway to Hell

All his life.
All his life, Thomas had dreamt about this very moment. Ok, ok, perhaps not all his life, that would be a bit of an exaggeration. The M50 wasn't even built when he was born in 1972. But all his commuting life he had dreamt about it. All those years spent in traffic jams on the shaggin' M50. Bumper to bump with tens of thousands of bastards who didn't belong there. Who had no right to drive on his motorway. Well, it was well and truly his today. All to himself. None of those other fuckers who were all cowering at home. Terrorised by a shaggin' little voirus. Bunch of muppets. The M50 was his. At last. There was no stopping him. Pedal to the metal, on the M50, on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Well worth a pandemic if you asked him. Worth every uncluttered mile of unbridled motoring passion. There was no stopping him. Not the shaggin' voirus and the Guards. He'd plough through their mickeymouse checkpoints. Check me arse, Sarge! There was no stopping him. And anyway, why was he wearing his shaggin' seat belt? The Che did not wear a seat belt on his motorbike tour of South America. Fildema and Louise did not buckle up! Off with the shaggin seat belt, yeeeehaw! [ding] Shite [ding ding] Aw bollox [DING DING DING] Thomas would have to go back home now, the ding-ding-dings were really wrecking his buzz, and Google "how to switch off the shaggin' seat bell warning on a 2014 Hyundai Tucson". But he'd be back! And then, there would really be no stopping him!