I like gowns. Not crowns. Or is it togas I like? Can’t remember now, but I do hazily recall a toga party during Uni, now that was a big, bulging barrel of ball-splitting banter, quite literally (Stephen Storey-Sedgewick caught his scrotum on a radiator during impromptu bundling and ended up in North Middlesex for a fortnight being re-dressed daily by a bearded Croat nurse called Umat).

Togas, Monty Python, The Meaning of The Holy Grail, everyone in toga-type gowns. Some of them had crowns, too. Hang on, is it crowns I like? Jesus, indecision, must be still pissed, it’s 7.47 am, I know, I’ll have a swig from my breakfast-gin hip flask, trying to prevent a particularly large hangover, you see.

Sixty-seven, no, wait; sixty-eight (stop hiding behind the pillar, you little sod) robotic souls, gazing and hazing and waving and drooling on this dreary platform are all staring at me. I am a little blathered, they know it and are all whispering to each other, ooh, look at him, he’s blaspheming and he’s drunk… scum!

Left New York last night, leaving my girl, Angel (name verified by passport) behind. Probably, well, hopefully, never to be seen again. I bade fare thee well to her and the mass of coffee-addicted, proud Nike-folk and, wait for it, ahhh, took my seat in Business-Class. That’s right, turn left when you get on, not right. You lot off you go down there, out of my sight. And off they trail, a crowd of pissed off football fans just out of the ground after a 4-niller, a mystery-meat pie and two hours of gales and drizzle. Outside the ground, it still rains. Well, look at me, up here, in a Sponsor’s box, all warm and sipping champagne after winning 4-0 away. Now just have to wait for my limo home, a kiss from a babe and buttered foie gras. You lot get walking back to your council estate for a two-minute tongue sarnie with a toothless missus and peas on toast. The winning formula you want to know? Simple; Control the middle of the park via a free lift to JFK with a mangy-faced executive bird with lousy teeth and a stained scarf… Go two up at check-in with some charming wizardry on the wing and a most gratefully received upgrade… Pull well clear in the second half with a gin-enhanced through ball into my Business Class seat the size of a small Canadian province. Well chuffed with myself. Booked for celebrating too much? Good. The name’s Pungency Smallpiece. Need a pen? I’ve a hundred in my armrest, next to the fifteen magazines, I-Pod, X-box, T-bird, G-spot and golden C-3PO.

Ah, just leaving Angel now, how fitting.

Wish there was Business Class on the tube. With a strict gown policy. And free breakfast-gin, I’m fresh out.