Martin John was technically chased out of Euston Station by the oppressive forces of police and observant railway workers. He was forced further down the train line. They made him hop a few platforms away.

If they hadn’t chased him away from his beloved Euston station he never would have given the people of a somnambulant Welwyn North train station the fright they claimed he did.

A man in the car park, heading home to his bungalow with climbing magnolia on his mind, swore when he phoned him in that Martin John was tipping his nib towards a rubbish bin. That he saw him with his trousers open.

We’ve not long even had rubbish bins restored to the station, he complained, muttering about the IRA. I knew he was near the rubbish bin because yesterday I slipped my own sweet wrapper in it.