I am road-tripping back to England's north. At 7:42am on Chiswick High Street, my trusty accomplice James Chessell sweeps into the holding bay across from High Road House in our borrowed chariot: a Mercedes-Benz AMG C63 Saloon of destiny. Idling, she strains at the leash as I haul my bags into the trunk.

Leaving London – no matter the time nor the day (nor, sadly, the automobile) – is a dreadful project. But the entire point of this exercise is to entertain ourselves with inane banter while manfully denying an iota of affection for each other. For this, conditions are ripe.