I was sliding across the floor of Waterloo Station when I saw him: the most fucked man I have ever seen.

It was a Saturday lunchtime in early September, the rain was whipping through the grand Victorian entrances of the central London station, and we collided on the concourse.

He was young, badly shaven, and completely off his gourd. To my mind, he looked a little like Ed Matthews with a traumatic brain injury. I backed off, but he just stayed where he was, feet planted to the ground, his body lurching at a 30-degree angle, as if he were leaning over some invisible ledge or calling a worm a cunt.

His tongue was sticking out like a dying dog’s and his jeans were falling down. The rest of the people in the station—suburban day trippers, tourists, commuters, hen parties—were making unnatur

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