Thing is, we can all do silly things when we have a few scoops under our belts. Being dumb is an occupational hazard if you like the odd snifter. I’ve got war stories about my exploits, all my friends who aren’t teetotallers have them.

This is a gem of a war story. I’m indebted to my mate Sean for it. One of the best aspects is it’s what you may call a drinking story that didn’t involve drinking.

A mate of Sean’s was a notorious piss artist. I am not condoning or admiring this, nor criticising, merely reporting the facts. Not too surprisingly, this had led to some friction in his marriage. It got to ultimatum time.

‘We’re going out on Friday night. You arrive home on time and sober. If not, that’s it. Over.’

Sean’s mate, wishing to maintain the marriage, acquiesced. He eschewed his usual cityboy lunchtime/post-work lash-up, left his work promptly, got to Liverpool Street station in plenty of time.

Anyone who has used Liverpool Street on a Friday knows full well it’s a scheduling duckshoot. The timings are all over the shop. And so it proved this Friday. The indicator boards were showing ‘Delayed/Cancelled’ all the way across. Matey got irate.

‘I’m sober and on time for the first time in years, ever, and the f****** trains aren’t running! My marriage is on the line here!’ he fumed to himself.

Off he went to vent his anger and try to establish what the problem was. He found a man in uniform, grabbed him by the lapels, got in his face. Again, I neither condone nor admire his actions.

‘Why aren’t the f****** trains running on time?’

‘But, but, but…’

‘Don’t give me that crap. This is a station. All a station does is run trains! That’s all it has to do!’

‘But, but, but…’

‘Tell me what’s going on!’

‘But, but, but…

Tell me!’

‘But I don’t know. I’m a postman….’

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