2 hour driveup, 2 hours back. Not even taken into account the rubbish I watched inbetween. I could have read a book, taken a leisurely stroll, maybe go out and enjoy some of the culture that Bristol has to offer. But no, instead I have to sit on the M5 on the way to scream so hard at a bunch of pansies that I almost pop a vein in my head. Can anyone beat that? If so I bow down to your superior appetite for frustration. I'm off to bed. Of course if I was Wolves at this point I'd really take my time about first visiting the lounge, kitchen, lounge, bathroom, lounge then the kitchen again and then make a punt for the bedroom only to miss the bed and end up sleeping on the floor.