In my opinion, the M25 is precisely as long as the time it takes for your petrol light to come on. It’s the 117 miles of hope and despair, a ribbon of tarmac that connects Heathrow to the M1, and your morning coffee to your afternoon headache.
Next time you’re crawling past Junction 15—you know, the one near the M4 that’s always a mess—remember this: you are driving a specific, finite distance. A distance someone in a lab coat calculated. It just doesn’t feel finite. That’s the magic of the M25.
So, to answer your question: it’s 117 miles of shared national trauma. And a brilliant, cursed, and absolutely essential part of British life.
