It was only about 7, but just outside Tottenham Hale in a crowded coach, some otherwise respectable-looking chap threw up in the bank of seats in front of me. Everyone reaches for their bags and lifts their feet off the floor, etc. But then I realise that there's even more commotion than one might expect in such a situation. Turns out he's only emptied the largely beer-based contents of his stomach on the feet of an Allan couple in front of him. She's in a hijab and in tears, he's got the chinbeard and is jabbering away about this poor bloke being an animal and having defiled him and his wife. Needless to say, the puker's slurred attempts at apology aren't cutting any ice.

Anyway, we pull into Ponders End and vomit man decides (not unreasonably) that discretion is the better part of valour and legs it off the train at what is clearly not his stop. Chinbeard goes to race after him, but slips over in the vomit. Wife's wailing away while some helpful lady's offering her tissues, which for some reason seems to make her even more upset.

Anyway, nobody's making eye contact after that and they eventually get off at Brimsdown and we're all left there in shock in a railway coach reeking of vomit. It was a long journey to Broxbourne.

And that's why multiculturalism doesn't work.