Not long after the 24 hour drinking laws came into effect into the UK and long before the ban on drinking on public transport started, i stopped working nights.
Working nights at the start of a weekend (beginning on a thursday) wasn’t fun, unless you were in a similar state to the drunks just kicked out of the nearest pub and making their way to a club. Booze, well the smell of booze – whether from a can or regurgitated, packed the bloody-window-wont-open roasting cans as they filled up heaving from stop to stop.
That was the start.
At the end of my working week, it would be 8am in the morning, and i’d been at it for 10 hours. On the trip back there was nothing nicer and sweeter than taking out a can and watching those disgusted looks sweeping you up down, or a refined wrinkling of the nose from those still groggy from an early awakening. Then the cogs would turn.
it’s 8am and he’s drinking!
Must be a wino! Before our dear amy was even out of nappies.
Dole scum. Or just scum.
When it was nothing more harmful than relaxing after a hard nights work and enjoying a nice refreshing drink, so by time I reached home all that was left was a quick shower before slow unwinding and bed.