Home, James.

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On the treble-O one service of desperation, with the rest of the drunks and rapscallions, it stinks of cheap frozen chips, onions, and is filled with babble in a dozen languages. I’m only here because my depression has hit such a peak that I was able to leave the pub before I was properly drunk (though my camera bears evidence that I was able to do some russian dancing before I left.) Lips smack in one ear, a cough hits the other. I can’t believe this train’s still sitting here. All anyone is talking about is booze, how much they’ve drunk, what they’re going to drink when they get home, how terrible it is that the english drink so much. I’m looking forward to next week, opine the couple behind me munching on fries, bean-burgers and rings, because then i’m going to sort my life out.

The train ekes out of the station as the couple in front of me, an elegant pock.marked black girl and a balding middle.aged gent go for the kiss. My glance at them diverts it into cuddles. The couple behind are extolling the virtues of the 1.99 treble cheesebushes, as their arteries clog with the booze that supplied the imperative to food, and that will eventually bring our lifespans down to the Russian levels, when our economies collapse in the face of China and India. The immigrants around me, admirable as they are, are rats joining a sinking ship. The English are surviving on the wealth of empire, and cramming themselves with its processed by-products while they can. Some of the people sitting on the floor leave, lowering the impression of the third-world. The couple behind me will make greasy love later.

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