The bus station is a stinker. Bolted onto a 1980s shopping centre, the only way to access it – or, indeed, to make your escape – is by going through Crowngates’ dingy confines, which are drenched in more seagull muck than anywhere which is almost seventy miles from the nearest beach should be.
Each member’s socks have crumpled into a heap by their ankles, the elastic presumably giving up somewhere around the fifth pint. Their dancing is just as ragtag, but they’re having a great time while dodging the huffy looks from those who do actually know what they’re doing. Those people are wearing flowery hats, though.