Cold Beer and Hot Politics. Chapter 1.

The incessant ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel was the only sound breaking the oppressive silence that had settled on the flat. John sat motionless in his frayed armchair, staring blankly ahead as the clock hands etched their way towards half past ten. Thirty more minutes of wakeful consciousness remaining before he could seek respite in chemically-induced sleep.

With a heavy sigh, John hoisted himself up and shuffled to the kitchen to prepare the same meagre meal he had eaten every night for the past fifteen years – a single slice of white bread smeared with baked beans from a tin. The smell turned his stomach, but it was nourishment enough to sustain his survival. Survival – that was the sum purpose of his existence now.

John ate perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, mechanically chewing each bite as he glanced around at the cupboards and appliances that had likely not been updated since the flat was built in the early 1960s. Though barely serviceable, the galley kitchen was pristine; John maintained a regimented cleaning schedule, finding purpose in the orderliness and routine of it. The rest of his 650 square foot accommodation was equally spotless and spartan.

Washing his dish and utensils in the sink, John caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window – hair thinning and gone grey, a pallid complexion aged beyond his 53 years, eyes drained of vitality. He turned away and shuffled off to don his bedclothes, even though it was not yet 11 pm. It mattered not. His sole daily obligation was to arrive by 8:30 sharp at the nondescript office building where he processed data entries, speaking barely a word to anyone except his supervisor, and then depart again at 6 pm. On Saturdays he ventured to the Tesco two Tube stops away, navigating the aisles amongst the faceless masses. Sundays were spent entirely within the flat, the hours creeping by.

This had become John's existence since the divorce five years prior. His two children had remained with his ex-wife and he rarely saw them anymore; she had made it quite clear during the bitter proceedings that he was no longer welcome in their lives. And so John had learned to live within himself, within these four walls. He took his dinner alone, slept alone, and awoke alone. Silence was now his closest companion.

At precisely 10:45 John shook two Nytol caplets from the bottle on his bedside table and washed them down. Sliding under the covers, he reached for the transistor radio and switched it on, tuning the dial to the BBC's late night cricket coverage. The clipped voices of the commentators droned on about wickets and overs, soon joined by the hypnotic litany of the shipping forecast: gale warnings in Rockall, northwesterly winds in Cromarty and Forth, rain later for Dogger.

As the drugs began to take hold, John's mind drifted, conjuring up visions of his boyhood in the Yorkshire dales during the 1950s. He saw himself as a towheaded lad playing cricket with his mates in the village green, the sun glowing across a landscape that seemed eternally verdant. The images were so vivid he could almost hear the thwack of willow wood on leather, feel the grass stains on his knees.

But too soon the forecast switched to repeating station identification tags, followed by the jarring blare of the national anthem signalling the end of broadcasting at midnight. The radio switched off automatically, leaving John in silence. As the Nytol pulled him towards oblivion, tears escaped down his hollowed cheeks. Somewhere along the way, England, and John himself, had lost their way. The glories existed now only in his dreams. With a shuddering breath, he surrendered to the void of drug-induced, dreamless sleep; it was his only escape from the bitter disappointment of waking.