The Guardian predicts the demise of the Little Chef.
I hope all the UK's bikers turn out for the funeral. The Little Chef is an essential two-wheel pitstop:
– there's always parking, and if you're lucky you can keep an eye on the bike from your table (I travel mostly on my own and like to leave the bike where I can see it – call me paranoid!)
– they're always warm – something to do with the serried ranks of deep-fat fryers, perhaps? – so there's a chance to thaw out before getting stuck into the Olympic Breakfast.
– they used to do veggie sausages.
– there will always be an old boy ready to tell me that he used to ride Triumphs during his national service, or a teenage waiter about to take his CBT who wants to swop war stories about falling off while learning.
– you don't have to bring your own newspaper to read.
Most importantly, when I'm on my last legs thanks to white line fever and an overambitious schedule to get home from Scotland to London, I can see the tubby bloke in the chef's hat from far enough away to do the mirror-signal-lane change- lifesaver- exit … frozen fingers on the brakes, wobbly foot down on the left hand side, ignition off and try not to drop the keys, before ordering a cafetiere of coffee that comes with proper china. I'm afraid Burger King just isn't the same….