Apt, that – the title of the song that is – but probably still verging on understatement. I am talking about the particular strain that eminated from the particularly just-out-of-oxbridge-and-I-can-do-anything-pseudo-hippy-drippy twat that bounded onto my train at Earls Court and announced himself to the carriage completely untruthfully as ‘a travelling minstrel, trying to bring happiness to the world through music’, then proceeded to bawl his Pop Idol mawl of Ashcroft’s finest accompanied by his faithful five-stringed sack-of-shit. Or maybe luck wasn’t so much of a factor after all: he probably scanned his way through all the carriages to find the one that looked most likely to have a good smattering of the half-dead and the gullible Surrey folk that he obviously felt so right at home with, and not enough of them to pose a threat to the health of him or his Dad’s geetar. Either way, that two-bit child-abused Mock-Californian cunt-for-brains proceeded to wreck that unique atmosphere on the tube that I believe people crave after a day dealing with pondlife and forcing polite conversation, one in which you can quietly introspect, sleep or read without any obligation to talk to (or look at) anyone at all. It got to the point where I was contemplating whether a suicide bomber would have been a more welcome passenger – at least I could have persuaded him that West Kensington was the den of Satan and it all would have ended one stop sooner. As it happened, I jumped ship at Barons Court, bemoaning my decision to leave my not-an-iPod at home and literally shaking with rage that he’d instigated that thought.