A few words of warning about the mysterious M33

ONE OF my chief hobbies is collecting modern folk verse from drivers I meet in motorway service areas - modern folk ballads about motorway life represent some of the most compelling verse being written today. Seldom, however, are they as haunting as this ballad, told to me by a sad-looking driver not long ago at Charnock Richard, and called The Ballad of the M33.

Oh, listen, you maidens,

And hearken to me

And don't you drive down

The M33]

For many young policemen

And RAC men

Who went down that road

Were not seen again]

The signs are so tempting

Saying 'Turn off ahead',

But don't you obey them

Or you might end up dead . . .

One night as I motored

Along the M6

I saw a big signpost:

'Exit Here For The Styx

On The M33,

One Miles ahead',

And I wish now I'd driven

Straight home instead.

But inquisitive, I turned off,

Although it was dark,

And found a great river

Running through a great park

And the the boatman said, 'Hi there]

You coming with me?'

And I said I was looking

For the M33.

'I'll take you,' he said,

With a skull-like grin

But I ran to my car

And jumped right in

And drove back again

The way I had come

To the distant sound

Of a funeral drum . . .

Behind me the terror,

Ahead the light

I drove quite reckless

Through the night]

Till I came back down

The same exit road

And only then

Relaxed and slowed.

When suddenly out

of the dark, dark night

There came a familiar

Flashing blue light.

'Hello,' said the policeman,

'and what have we here?

Parked on the shoulder?

Oh dear, oh dear . . .

A little bit drunk, sir?

Or having a snooze?

It's not what I'd call

A good place to choose . . .'

So I told him the truth

Of where I'd just been

And he said: 'I know no one

Who's seen what you've seen,

For the road that you speak of

Does not exist]

It's all been a dream, sir.

Are you sure you're not pissed?'

Not a drink had I taken

Not a wink had I slept

And I showed him the mileage

I'd carefully kept

Which proved that I'd driven

Twenty miles more

Than my scheduled journey

Door to door]

'I believe what you say,'

Said the man in blue,

'But you must tell no one

What I now tell you,

For the M33

Is a ghost motorway

Here tomorrow,

And gone today]

No atlas show it,

No gazetteer,

It comes and it goes,

It's usually not there . . .'

And I must have dozed off

As he wandered on

For when I awoke

That policeman had gone]

And I started in horror,

Then started the car,

And didn't look back

Till I'd gone very far

And that's why I say,

Oh, listen to me,

And ignore all those signposts

Saying 'M33']

Note: the man who told me this poem said he heard it from a white-haired driver whom he began talking to during a two-hour tailback one evening on the M4.