ACCIDENTAL NEWBURY

For some reason, day dreaming or just not concentrating properly, I approached the roundabout I cross over every day, flicked on my indicator and went left onto the M4 motorway towards South Wales, when actually what I really wanted to do... was go home.

Oh brilliant. I thumped the steering wheel as I rolled down the slip road, knowing I would have to go all the way to Newbury and then back again - a round trip of 22 pointless miles.

I turned on the radio. They were talking about football; thankfully not the treatment of Eden Hazard, about which I now consider myself something of an expert. This time, they were talking about the questionable behaviour of some other multi-millionaire with co-ordinated feet and a disconnection to actual reality. I need no convincing that this sport is ridiculous.

The other day, Emmie told me that it's most efficient to drive at about 60 mph behind a tall lorry. So I thought I'd give it a go. I've got no idea whether it's true (though Emmie is often quite right about these things). I spent the whole time working out a more accurate way of saying 'if you can't see my mirrors, I can't see you!' which was emblazoned on a sticker on the rear doors. I think it is possible to see me if I can't see your mirrors, but what is true is that it's impossible for you to see my eyes.

Then, I thought, I'm pretty sure it's more useful to see at least some of my vehicle in a lorry driver's mirror. And while accurate, my version is not quite as snappy a bumper sticker.

I did have an accident once where a lorry driver didn't see me at all. 26th October, 2003, M4 Junction 18a. I'll tell you about it sometime.

Anyway, any more day dreaming and I'd be there at Junction 18a again, and 13 (Newbury) was far enough. I successfully exited the motorway, went round the interchange and got back on, making a careful note to head East and not further West.

Did I tell you about the time I drove up the A34 in the fog after a gig, missed the exit I needed until I was somewhere in the Midlands, so turned around, headed South and then missed it again? No? Phew; that would have been embarrassing.

So tonight I drove the uneventful 11 miles back to Junction 12 and successfully exited the motorway, wondering what it would have been like to have been a Premier League footballer. I think on the whole, I'm glad I'm me.

Though I'd have made it back a lot faster in a supercar.