The Truants

My friend’s been shagging a hot journalist for the past three days, no need to wait…

Sorry. But it is midday. And I’m having a crisis.’

I was confronted by the drab reality of whe

ty of where I would be living for the next three years: a concrete shithole in the middle of flat, windswept Norfolk on what – if you looked at a map – was actually the bulging arse of the UK.