The train shook and rattled like an alcoholic in the first stages of withdrawal, dragging me out of the deep, dark womb of sleep by my lapels and into a searing, painful consciousness.
‘Bollocks,’ I muttered. ‘Not again.’
I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus. I looked out of the window. A thick fog hung outside.
‘Where the b****y hell are we?’ I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. ‘Is this Seatown?’
‘We’re almost there, mate,’ said the ageing punk rocker that was sat opposite me, wearing a stained Santa Clause costume.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, and it looks a lot friggin’ better when the weather’s like this, I can tell you,’ he said.
‘Not too fond of the place, then?’ I said, stretching my aching arms.
‘Nah, mate. It’s as grim as f**k and every fucker looks like Phil Collins.’
‘Even the w
