It’s 5pm and I’m standing on a packed, unmoving train, somewhere between Swindon and Bristol Parkway, dodging questionable armpits and trying my best to get used to the sardine...
'But how do you satisfy an itch in a country where one can’t order more than a glass of prosecco? I feel awkward gesturing for the bill with the ridiculous English hand gestures, let alone asking for uno handjob.'