First things first: everyone got stuck just past junction 4. Like, really stuck. I’m talking “check your engine light” kind of stuck.
Was it an accident? A fallen tree? A rogue badger holding a protest? Nope. It was a lorry. A lorry that decided the hard shoulder was a perfect spot for a nap with its hazards on.
One single, sleepy truck brought the entire northbound flow to a screeching, honking halt. You could hear the collective sigh from space, I swear.
Where Were You in The Queue?
If you were in it, you were either updating your will or making peace with your snack choices. Did you have that gross protein bar from 2026? You ate it. And you regretted it.
If you were not in it? Oh, you were the smug one, weren’t you? The one who took the A3 diversion and sent those “lol, good luck” texts. I see you. We all see you.
The queue stretched back so far, historians are calling it “The M3 Migration of 2026.” It was that epic. And not in a good way.
