Special Guest Blogger: Chris Rea

I never thought I’d die at Christmas. Not because I’m not festive. Oh, I am. I’ve always fancied myself the sort of bloke who’d go out in a blaze of tinsel and mulled wine, preferably after eating one too many Quality Street chocolates. But I didn’t expect it to happen right when my most famous song started playing on every supermarket sound system from Aberdeen to Arizona.
Shuffling off this mortal coil 3 days before Christmas. The irony? It’s not lost on me.
I spent most of my life chasing fame with a guitar and a determination to prove I wasn’t just another bloke from Middlesbrough who liked the blues. And then, somehow, I became famous. Not 'I’ve-got-a-waxwork-in-Madame-Tussauds' famous, mind you. More like 'Wait, you’re that bloke who sang that car song, aren’t you?' famous. But hey, I’ll take it. I once got served before George Michael at a fish and chip shop in Hartlepool because the bloke at the counter recognised my voice. True story. I think he thought I was going to break into song. I did. It ruined his day. And his chips.
I sold over 30 million records which isn't bad considering I had a voice that sounded like it’s been sanding down a coffin for the last 40 years. And yet, people still loved me. Or at least, they love the idea of me driving home for Christmas anyway.
Bless that little ditty. I wrote it in ten minutes during a heatwave, dreaming of snow and family and not getting lost on the M1. I had no idea it would become the unofficial anthem of the festive season.
Every time December rolled around, I become a seasonal deity. Shops blasted my dulcet, gravelly tones at pensioners buying mince pies. Radio stations played it on loop and then i died at Christmas. Perfect timing. Bit of a PR masterstroke, really. Nothing says legend like passing during the peak playback season of your most iconic track.
And the best part? I’m gonna be sharing record space with Wham! and Mariah forever on every Best of Christmas record. Get in.
I may not have had the flamboyant costumes or the stadium tours of the bigger pop acts. I didn’t wear capes or date supermodels or set anything on fire (on purpose). But I sang about driving, about rain, about life being a bit rubbish sometimes  and people listened. And now, whenever someone listens to Driving Home for Christmas, whether they’re stuck in traffic, missing a loved one, or just eating a cold turkey sandwich at 2 a.m., I’m there with them.
So dying at Christmas wasn’t part of the plan. But then again, neither was becoming a cult figure for seasonal driving and remember, if you are driving home for Christmas and you hit a patch of ice, steer into the slide.