I’ve been standing here like this for fifteen minutes now and have come to realise there’s something seriously wrong. Surely no-one on earth could go for half this time. But although this made me feel special, it was the last thing anyone would want to feel special for. I could just make out my own reflection in the blue ceramic tiles barely a foot in front of me. After all, it was the only place to hold my gaze in here.

The sensor below clicked and the urinal flushed for about the tenth time and still there was no sign of my bladder giving up. I was in such a dilemma here and to make matters worse my last train was probably due any minute.

My eyes rolled to the right as far as I could crane them without turning my head. The time read 11.23 on the man’s watch beside me, I have ‘till half past.

Again I had to lean forward to allow another gent pass between the wall and my rucksack. This was beyond a joke, and I was sure someone by now had suspected my defiance of the laws of chemistry. After five minutes I admit, I was impressed. After ten, I was in denial and shock. But now I’ve just come to accept that this is now perpetual and that I was just going to have to find a way of overcoming the problem.

I have to catch my last train from platform 12 through one of the busiest stations in central London and I have no way of plugging this leak. When you’ve gotta go. You’ve gotta go, and unfortunately I can’t stop.

I can’t stop. It won’t stop. A line of miniature volunteer firemen passing splashing buckets of water attempting to put out the fire at the old Johnson Place, the brothel from that Saturday morning TV western, Perpetual Motion. Marie Castellino, the hard nosed floosie that would only charge ‘what you think she’s worth’. Her hips were like magnets. No, like rocks, magnetic rocks. She would grind a man to brick dust. People loved her. I loved her. I had loved her too, the static helping me to show this. Until one little hip induced spark jumped on the cotton drawers near my cowboy boots and woof!

Screaming scarlet ladies raised the alarm. The smell of rose oil cooking dirty professional skin. Skin which satisfied senses, crisped to bite sized chunks to satisfy the other senses of men and women. The same men and women who were now passing buckets, “Forbsy, Forbsy, Forbsy…” was their war chant.

“Forbsy, Forbsy, Forbsy?” I look up and an old school friend, Tony Doig (who had a video snowboarding franchise) is standing at the next urinal.

“Tony! I was miles away, what are you doing here?” I hate talking to myself in other people’s sunglasses, especially out of season.

“Taking a leak old bean!”

There was no doubt about it, even without those invincible marble eyes on display and through the decade aged and carbonated leather skin, Tony’s creamy face was like no other. “What are you doing here in England? I haven’t seen you since you left to conquer the Alps.” I tried to collect my thoughts, and also some thoughts from a good nine or so years back. I turned back to my favourite blue tile.

“Old news, old news. Move out, move on, move in, keep up. Gotta go with the flow you know?”

I couldn’t think of anyone who irritated me more.

“Same attitude, different altitude. The boards are bigger and the birds wear less” he said in a smug tone.

“But what about the booming trade on the tips of glaciers?”

“Rolling on the crests of monster waves today mate, I’ve got a whole coastline monopolised now. Besides, the glaciers aren’t there any more.”

I looked back at Tony now staring at a flier for a local line dancing club. “Aren’t there?”

“Yeah, dried up. Climates change ol’ boy, global warming, economic displacement. Nothing ever runs out, it just moves from one place to another. So naturally I just followed it to the sea.” Tony shook unnecessarily, spat into the flush, zipped up and flicked back his hair like he had more of it.

"Talking of global warming, who lit the fire under that iceberg of piss? I'd give that white water a number 4 rating"

For a fleeting second I was proud again. "You should have seen it 10 minutes ago, I preobably had three seperate currents going."

"You're licking me! You get trapped in that and you have to swim down, always down."

"Trapped...yeah. Speaking of which, I've missed my last train and I think I'm flooding Southend."

"Trains smains. I'll get you anywhere you want to go. I'm Tony Doig and I've got stuf. Stuff for moving people. People I like. And you're ok. So I got the stuff to move you. Hell yeah.... and 18ich pythons too xx"

"Nice, but there's still the problem of Mr Johnson and his oniony eye."

"Leave it to me, I have a shitter in the limo and I have the perfect plan to get you there"

Then just like Tom Cruise he flicks out his zippo and sets fire to the bin.

"You better put this bastard out" And he carries it out the door.

"Coming through" I rallied as we leave the station like heroes.

Chapter 2

"I feel really bad"

"you do look as pale as the dead dude"

"no, I mean about those midgets on platform 9."

"Hell yeah. Right in your line of fire too"

"We're at the club already?"

"You what man? Oh, yeah as it happens, its just around the corner of Rose Street." Through the one way glass I could just make out a dozen or so women in scarlet skirts and shoes standing in a neat queue outside London's most exclusive live dance club "Line of Fire"

"How you doing back there? Any change?"

"I think we're gonna need a bigger bin."

And with that sentence it stopped.

Now, I did ok at school. I had good grades, even took maths a year early. I liked to solve problems, problems with logic and rules. I was popular too. Played for the football seconds, scored a crazy goal once, wow. You know the kind. Would have made head boy if it wasn't for baking soda and digestive biscuits ha! No regrets. It was great and I still love life. Mostly what I'm trying to say is that I'm cool and that i know the difference between finishing and stopping because of magic. And I know that I'm not empty. Something else has happened. Maybe I need a bigger bin? Maybe we all need a bigger bin? I don't know. Maybe it's Tony? I like Tony. And dancing? But something here has stopped the piss and if I don't stay on the track I'm gonna get run down by the train, the train of sticky piss, the loo-comotive, the porcelain express.... (I think Tom Hanks stars in the movie.)

I gazed down at the bin nearing the brim. That silence was golden. Tony clocked me in the rear view mirror expectantly, as if he too felt time coming to an abrupt halt. His eyes fixed mine like a professional and for the first time without that cocky front.

"Now's your chance man. The lights are red, but for how long?"

My eye caught the crystal brandy decanter that sat naturally snug into the leather chesterfield upholstery. A sense of urgency took hold as if a whistle had blown and before I knew it I was out the door and heading for the club like Pele dribbling through a mine field. My ankle clipped a taxi bumper and probably left a bit behind but I don't think I could have cared less at this point. Nothing could stand in my line of fire.

"Sorry mate. Your name's not down, you're not getting in."

Shit monkey. I'm pretty sure that my piss wants me in here. Something's going down.

"You sure my name's not there? Could you look again? The name's er... Bin.... erm... Bigger Bin. Parents were hippies etc."

"Oh, Mr Binn. Sorry sir, I thought you said Forb... Richard Forb, I do have a slight cold.... anyhoo, please come in, your booth has been prepared."

After a moments disbelief, my shoulders let go of my arms making it clear to all but an aardvark that this doorman was in my good books for life.

His block hand beckoned onward paving an almost celestial path through un-weaving scarlet frocks until two neat lines collected in exquisite formation. I'm certainly expected.

The door opened like friction was extinct. I was immediately greeted by the warm musty air and the ringing of cowbells hung from the door. The girl behind the desk did indeed have a cowboy hat on and surely enough this small hall with its warped mirror had seen plenty of choreographed action. The splintered floor had the scuff marks to prove it. was she chewing straw? Her orange lips skewed and revolved as if they were stuck on.

On my approach I was struck by spearmint moisture to the words "sign, date and symptom ere mate" in an unmistakable east London tone. She handed me her own biro chewed to shreds like an old dogs bone. So clammy were my hands that it was difficult to get a good grip. A single drop of sweat left my brow and crowned onto the guest list instantly bleeding a freshly inked "Johnny Foreigner" signed only ten minutes ago and with the symptom...

...of 'Too many badges.'

What could that have to do with anything? Bugger knows. Somebody is waving at me. It's nice. He has the hair of a teacher, one of the one's that I like

"Mr Binn? You look so different, almost scruffy. You must have just finished, I guess. Please sit down, people are about to choose."

My booth is made of wool. But clean. So very clean. And its moving. Moving in time with my pulse. I've never been so at home. A beautiful young sheep's head reveals itself next to me, on my bench seat. It looks scarily similar to an old girlfriend.

"Mr binn, would you mind? It's time for you to wear the glasses" says the sheep's head. They are tortoise shell. They're good. I look good. Then there's a flash, a brilliant violent flash.

Followed by a whirring noise and a click. It takes a few seconds to recover my senses and realise a figure is holding out a piece of white paper to me. As soon as I've taken this piece of tacky paper the figure has efficiently moved on somewhere out of sight. The paper is completely blank.

Again, another flash, whirr and click comes from behind a wall but evidently not intended for me. I feel a sudden chill when I move my limbs but my face feels like its burning up. My shirt is soaked, absolutely drenched, clinging to me like quick sand wants me cocooned. I feel comforted by the cold wooden floor as I slide my bare feet in circles without friction.

Everything is orange but gradiented and the booth tints as my head moves. A strong minty light creeps around the rim of my glasses but I prefer to look through the orange.

Another flash, whirr and click. Are these walls really as soft as they look? I want to reach out but I just don't have any strength. White paper. But not as white as I first thought. There's an image, a faint image of a figure. He looks exhausted slouched on that bench next to a heap of towels. He's wearing glasses like mine. The image appears stronger now. He looks like he's just been for a swim in his clothes. A lot of the detail is smudged in a psycadelic array of finger prints.

I ask a heap of towels next to me if this is important.

They mention that they're 10 tog.

"Huh? Duvets?" These towels are silly. I decide to ignore them.

"Excuse me, mister." Says the man on the paper. "Funny thing this place. We're like old post-it notes, here to remind you that you have things to do. I reckon you must have gone a little off course. You see, like cows, init. Anywho yeah. huh? What you got is a lack of drive, stuck in a rut, the old routine killing you 'n' all that which is funnily quite literal now. See.. yeah. If you don't get back to what you were put here to do, a lot of games played by very high up (you know) people are going to get messed up. Wallop. Don't pass go, pop, pop. Yeah? So get back on it. Ride that bike or it's lights out time at the old Forbsy farm. And another thing, this little midge, get on with it, encounter, bang, ain't cheap or free. I'm coming with you - see? Yeah? Just for the ride BUT, you get me, anything happens to me + my paper world, it happens to you. Mirrors init. Ha! So go and tip the girl at the door and get your arse in gear. We need a haircut, some onions, and a bicycle. Yeah? Cos we're cycling to Suffolk. And we got to go now, shit for brains.... mooooooove it."

For some reason I just sit there.  Blinking while the sweat circles my eyes.  My eyebrows are like sponges.  I try not to frown as I place the paper in my orange woollen wallet.  Yeah, it was a gift.  I like gifts, but I've never been that keen on this one.

"Head back sir" says a voice from behind and I comply without fuss.  Cold cold water runs through my hair and envelops my head like the promise of coconut milk to a parched Tom Hanks.  My brow curls up like grinning muscles while professional fingers massage my scalp to the rhythm of chewing straw.

Chapter 3

Its a new day, a new dawn.  In fact its 5.15am and the sun could take me by surprise from anywhere and at any time.  Hell, I don't even care, the wind is in my hair and that's what counts.  No drag, just clean streamlined traction.  These follicle contours lick the trees and leave them to eat my dust.  In your face trees.  Its a new day, I'm a new man and this is the A12.

"...andem twa...!!" someone yells out from the oncoming traffic.  I keep pedalling but it seems a bit tougher now.

"Glucose?"  Tony hands me his sparkling sports juice over my shoulder, apparently home made and packs a punch.  It tastes like... 

...the first time you kiss your mother.  Not when you kiss her hello or goodnight but that time when you've had a sherbet or two and there's a girl that you like and you want to practice before you make a move.  So you drop a little happy brownie in your mum's babysham and thirty minutes later it's lip and lock time.  That was how it tasted.  It tasted just so.  Then of course you want a nap.

"I could really do with one now!"

"Do with a what, mate?" Replied Tony.

"A Welcome Break!" I said with a heavy pant.

"Ha haaa... keep it up sport, it's only another 30 mile!" Tony's smug pride was his oxygen, if only I could cut off his supply, but I guess, that would only make this twice as hard.

The duel carriageway bends around to reveal a new vanishing point, I think I prefer blind summits. They're shorter and you're rewarded with an easier ride once over... or the prospect of riding off the end. The end of the air. Like Thelma and Louise. Except.... with Tony.

Forty eight miles, one hour twelve and no Welcome Breaks later, we arrive at Unit 10. Some guy named Fletch takes the bike to studio2 while Tricia and a guy called Pete in a shark costume with a surf board throw a scarf of garlic and onions around my neck and pamper my nose. A midget with a fire hose takes me to studio1 which, for some reason, they call the blue house. It's completely green in here and quite disorientating. Tony talks shop with Phil and Lynn. He's right at home here.

"Polaroid bin?" Another midget asks with a shoe box of polaroids. I rummage but delicately take out the photograph from my wallet.

"You're having a laugh, do you know what that is? No? No! No. No? Crikey, you're one evil knob jockey. You're really going to do it. You're really going to do it? After all the help I gave you, bet you never even wrote about it. By your side I was, remember? Walk around the bar with cupped hands, not your fault what falls into them. Fluffy. Mmmmince. God. Gode. En Francais. Yeah. Yeah? Yeah! You big scrotum of greasy camel sick insect cock. Why I oughta...."

Good riddance. I never liked the little polaroid pervert. I'm pretty sure he spent most of the trip dry humping my ribs. Although, I suppose he did make me feel all man.