I travelled, rather am travelling from London, north, to Edinburgh today on the hottest day of the year. Temperature reading from fellow passengers have topped 47 degrees. We are stopping in York shortly where the train will be hand painted with a Virgin active logo, this is now Richard Bransons flagship free moving sauna. Mr Branson is so clever!

As I type away sweatily on my phone I’ve had a chance to take in some of the finest British stereotypes. In the vestibule, a group of jokers are determined to out do each other with loud jocular jokes and to my side a man complains at the group saying that complaining about things won’t help things. 

I nodded off soon after I got on the train, sweat and hair disturbing my face to the point where my seat mate abandoned his place and took up l a new seat in the cooler coaches. This is of course  an isolated problem and when offered other coolers coaches everyone who had been previously been communicating  in sighs has decided they actually quite like the warmth. The twitter complainers are still horrified. They paid for a seat and shouldn’t be asked to move. The twitter humorists in the vestibule have stuck fast too, this is too miserably funny to leave. The man complaining about people complaining to the people who weren’t complaining has stayed still too, too engrossed in his tablet to leave. The heat here is so intense however that I can’t tell if I’m just feverish and imagining it. I can say that it would be cooler and less smelly on this train if everything wasn’t clad in red carpet, so much so thatI’m having thoughts about using the toilet. But perhaps when I dosed off I slipped into illness. Perhaps this is all fever talking. There is, below everything I mentioned, a layer of twisted strangeness and it seems the plains between York and Darlington have gone on forever…

The first queer detail I can establish is that my girlfriend travelled this route earlier in the week. Surely they wouldn’t put a train which is unfit to run, on the tracks on the hottest day of the year?! That would be putting profits before human… Well the preventative measures are on point, luke warm thimbles of water passed out to the suffering few. Mr Branson is so clever and kind! The rumbling track stirs me again and I wonder if I’m actually ill… I seem to float weightlessly to the front of the train and find myself a seat in the cool and welcoming shade of the first class lounge. My hand is suddenly met by an ice cool glass of sparkling wine an my eye is caught by an admiring glance from am older woman in a cotton dress. I double take and see the crumpled image of Theresa May on the front of the Express. Stripped of her Power. A sexual fantasy never played out by Mr May. I reach for my free water shakily to ease my delirium but quickly find the thimbleas dry and empty as someone who ought to collect thimbles and money…

When I come to again, we’re somewhere between York and Darlington. The sweat is still licking my body in a similar manner to the dream I’d just conjured about our new Prime Minister. In the vestibule, the carriage clowns are discussing the rights and responsibilities of an employer to a Virgin Trains employee who looks suspiciously familiar. The man stands with his back to me, he is drenched in sweat and a thick layer of black coal dust over his overalls. The carriage jolts and startles me, and my eyes move to the sign on the wall with our destination on it ‘Brexit 19:00’. Everything makes sense suddenly and I put my exploding phone to one side for a moment and join those in the vestibule who are still debating workers rights. The man in the coal and flat cap is trying desperately to answer them but he is so red that every time he opens his mouth a fine coal powder puffs out and he can’t make a sound. This makes sense to me and I try to agree with him but find the jokers laughs and jokes too loud to compete with. They deride everything about human decency until myself and the dejected coal shoveler feel sunken and lost. Suddenly the grubby little driver grabs my arm and I wake sweatily, to the surprise of those around me, shouting “Jeremey Corbyn!” “Revolution…” A little awkwardly, I move the hair from my face and the sweat from my brow. The man next to me comments ” The heat, does all things to you.” and continues eating his bowl of pound coins. His beard and skydiver suit look familiar. He looks clever and kind. Before I nod off again, I check twitter and see a live feed from comrade Corbyn who has been forced back to his position as train driver…