In Barnsley the top of the Metrodome sticks up above the town like a minaret, calling the population to aquarobics.
A bright red sign states ‘Beware of Trains’. If you’re not careful some of them might cart you off to London.
The combination of a wet tiled floor and inefficient footwear meaning you skid into the booking hall doorway like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.
The first stop is Kirk Sandall, which sounds more like a fake alias than a village. “Hi, I’m Kirk Sandall… Kent Moccasin… Sergio Espadrille.”
“Would you like me to throw him on the tracks for you love?” offers a man standing nearby. It really is much friendlier up north.
The women have one hand battening down elaborate headwear from the breeze, the other clutching a pint of lager and lime.
Across the carriage sit a decidedly odd couple. They could be an item, but they could also be mother and son. They may indeed be all of the above.
Not only has the woman next to me invaded my personal space but she continues to invade my sanity as her iPod plays Lady Gaga’s Poker Face ten consecutive times.
You have to be particularly cockish to gain no empathy whatsoever when challenging authority.