A flash of light passes by the window every couple of meters. The carriage sways from side to side, and the airs warm smell is lingering. It sticks to the back of your throat and tastes like shit.

“I fucking hate London.” One of the many ‘anti-South’ statements to come from Craig’s mouth. Jonny and I are sitting, accepting what he says. There’s no point in protesting. We’ll only loose.

Anywhere else in the world this would be a zebra crossing, but here it’s a legend. Our feet guide us across and we shuffle past the crowds huddled at the gate. I push it open.  Silence.

A voice bellows out to us. “Oi lads! We’re not open to the public.” Frozen in our tracks I raise my head and take a deep breath. “We’ve come to have our vinyl mastered”, sheepishly escape’s my mouth.

The reply is swift. “In you come.”