Imagine a scene in town some time ago, or yesterday, it doesn’t matter. It stars a group of people who associate “being dead loud� with a great night out. No one else near them is having a great night.

This particular group happens to be predominantly female, but it need not be. There’s a ring leader to the growing circus, she hollers best.
Imagine what her friends must be like if they can cope with her abject company. Drool dripping from bitten lips, hamster cheeks crushing whorish eyes, life passing before their cries.
Then imagine you are enjoying a meal out and in they walk... every night’s a hen night.
I met them on the train though. The last train last night was packed like it was Friday night.
A group of girls swarmed around my empty seats and dropped their McDonalds onto the floor. One of them let off a remarkable stench.
Revellers joining the carriage were sing-songing The Way to Amarillo and such other novelty beer soaked good time songs that worm into the ears of man and set up home in the bad taste part of the brain, ready to be awakened by the mob.
As songs veered from 00s to 60s somebody stumbled, perhaps inevitably, into You’ll Never Walk Alone. Most people got on board, but one man almost literally ran screaming from the carriage as if his ears were bleeding and the worm was about to gnaw a meaty haemorrhage in his grey matter.
“****ing red *****, ****ing pricks. Worst ****ing song I ever heard in me life,� he shouted as he sought solace in the rear of the train.
Another man, bolder than the first, sat where he was and attempted to sing a Blue anthem. Failing to get it going he railed with Anglo-Saxon curses upon those who dared intone the sacred verses of Rodgers and Hammerstein.
In response a drunken floozy patrolling the aisle for booze, cigs, whatever she could get, attacked in a screeching scratching manner.
“Eeer yer out the cup, yer out the cup, and you can’t do nothin about it.� She was putting this to some sort of terrace tune, but she was certainly improvising its melody.
“Eh - what cup was it again.� She had honestly forgotten. Someone sheepishly reminded her.
The bolder Blue had tried to interject but his voice had no edge above her banshee cry. He sat red faced and defeated as she continued recalling a game from the past:
“You lost to Man United, you lost to Man United, you lost to Man United... and Rooney scored the goal!�
The burping ladies on the seat next to me said to each other: “Tell me I’m not like that when I get wrecked, mate.�
As I left the train, I tried hard to imagine this not being the case.

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