Picture this.

Imagine one of them films.It’d be like one from a crap film studio like Hammer or Amicus or the like and the hero (normally Patrick Allen, Peter Cushing or Ian Ogilvy) is a married (wife probably played by chubby Diana Dors or Sarah Lawson) smooth talking lady killer. He’s probably a writer or an antique collector (Have you noticed how British film heroes all have crap typically unheroic jobs? They’re rarely policemen or firemen or solicitors) and he’s off on some journey with his mistress played by someone like Lesley-Anne Down or Jane Merrow.

They stop for directions at a hotel or road side café owned by someone like Michael Ripper, Ian Bannen or Roy Kinnear who’s all sinister and mysterious (as all hotel and road side café owners are). Then following these directions they take a wrong turning at a crossroads after picking up a hitch-hiker (played by someone like David Warner or Nicol Williamson) and end up down some gnarled overgrown road passing a sign thats written in Ye Olde or something. Being lost, as you often are, they end up in this long forgotten town or village where all these shuffling soulless zombie like people just loiter in the shadows staring and swaying in shabby tattered rags. Maybe enacting long forgotten tasks or something. Then the hitch-hiker gets out of the car and gets the fuck bitten out of him by the locals….yeah? Can you imagine that?

Well that’s what its like for me most days driving round this part of Yorkshire.

Only I dont have Lesley-Anne Down or Jane Merrow to keep me company.