Chris Rea finally pulled off the ultimate “Driving Home for Christmas” – no sat-nav needed, just a grim reaper in the passenger seat flooring it down the express lane to the afterlife, three days before the big day. The cheeky bastard pancreatic cancer that nicked his entire pancreas, duodenum, gallbladder, and a slab of liver back in 2001 must’ve been fuming it didn’t finish the job then – came crawling back like a bad ex for round two and finally bagged the gravel-voiced legend. This absolute tank of a man survived that Whipple butchery, a massive stroke in 2016 that fucked his arms and speech, type 1 diabetes, peritonitis, popping 34 pills a day like they were fucking Tic Tacs, and seven insulin jabs just to stay vertical… only to peg it right when every supermarket, radio station, and M&S advert is blasting his husky arse warbling about top of the world and thousand memories. Talk about cosmic piss-take – millions driving home to his tune while his family’s booking a hearse with tinsel on the roof. At least up there, no more chemo, no more needles, and the heating’s guaranteed better than a frozen British motorway. Farewell, you indestructible Middlesbrough madman – heaven’s roads to hell just got a proper soundtrack. RIP you glorious, chain-smoking, blues-belting hero