23:45 London Charing Cross Station. It’s bloody late and it’s only going to get later. Somewhere ahead, two hours into the darkness at the end of the line, is Hastings, a warm, soft bed and what’ll remain of a night’s sleep. Here, there’s me and an old laptop with a fading battery and a tosser on a mobile phone talking very loudly about fancy dress costumes. Midweek games are brutal; commitment is required.