Every Sunday morning, Londoners across the city wake up in a bed that isn’t their own, pull on last night’s clothes, and begin the long journey home.
Armed with a large McDonald’s Diet Coke and at least three hash browns, they descend into the capital’s underbelly, sharing the Tube with Pilates princesses and groups of friends heading to the Natural History Museum.
I’m of course talking about what was once rather crudely dubbed a ‘ Read Entire Article


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