URGENCY is an alien concept to young men. Getting them out of bed before midday is hard enough, but, even when they’re up, they have two speeds – slow and stop.

I appreciate I’m generalising here but I’m talking about my own sons and their friends: lovely boys, but between the ages of 13 and 25, they need a rocket up their backsides.

Our Jack, 22, had two university friends – Tom and another Jack – to stay for the weekend. You couldn’t meet a nicer pair of lads, but urgency isn’t their strong point.

On the day of their return to London, they needed to catch a train from Northallerton at midday and I’d agreed to drive them to the station. They were due to catch a train to York, where they were booked on the only “Mega Bus” of the day to the capital. My plan was to get them to Northallerton and then have a relaxed Sunday lunch before watching the match on the telly.

We managed to get our own Jack and his mates out of bed just after 10am. They slobbed around in the kitchen, cooking themselves sausage sandwiches, reading the paper and chatting.

“We should leave by quarter past 11 to be safe,” I said, but I don’t think they heard. Young men exist in some kind of slow-motion limbo for the first few hours of the day and by 11am, they still hadn’t moved. I repeated: “Come on boys, you don’t want to miss your train.”

“Calm down, Dad,” said our Jack, waving his hand dismissively. “It’ll be fine.”

After a few more increasingly anxious urgings, they finally got up from the table – very, very slowly – and it was 11.20am by the time we got in the car.

“Stop panicking, Dad – there’s bags of time,” insisted Jack, who’d come along to see them off.

We made good progress, but sod’s law has dogged me all of my life. The railway crossing barrier was descending as we reached the outskirts of Northallerton and vital minutes ticked by as a freight train lumbered past with all the urgency of a young man who’s just got out of bed.

We reached Northallerton station as the clock struck 12 and, naturally, their train was just leaving.

The departures board showed the next York train had been cancelled and the one after that wouldn’t get them to their Mega Bus in time. There was nothing else for it – Dad’s Taxi had to drive like a bat out of hell to get them to York 40 miles away.

We made it by the skin of our teeth and, to be fair, Tom and Jack, were very appreciative. Our Jack, however, had sunken into a grumpy mood because he’d wanted to wash his hair before his girlfriend arrived.

Worse was to come. We were halfway back up the A1 when the traffic ground to a halt and we sat there for the best part of an hour before the air ambulance landed somewhere up near the front of the queue. It was another hour and a half before the police reopened the motorway.

“This is ridiculous – I’m never going to have time for a shower now,” groaned Jack.

We finally got home just after 4pm. The match had finished and my dinner had died a death – a slow death.

The things they say

THANK you to Debbie Aitken, of Newcastle, who got in touch to tell me how her friend’s grandson has a particular liking for eggs – but he always asks: “Can I have them strangled?”

MY cousin Susan, who lives all the way down in Brighton, told me how her grandson Luke, six, has a favourite flavour of ice cream: “Navilla.”

AND thanks to Karl Harvey, of Newcastle, for remembering how he was at the dinner table many moons ago with his parents and in-laws on Christmas day when his son, then aged three, suddenly declared: “Mummy, is ‘idiot’ a naughty word?”

Karl’s wife explained that it wasn’t a naughty word on its own, but it wasn’t nice calling anyone an idiot.

Their son then replied: “Well, f*** is a naughty word isn’t it, Mummy?”

As everyone round the table choked on their turkey, his Mummy asked: “Where have you heard that word?”

“From Daddy when he’s driving,” came the reply.