Some of the best goddamn work was as a ‘barra boy’.

Saturday morning during the holiday season in the eighties was a real earner for a young lad if you were up for real graft. Crowds of holidaymakers from far-flung corners of the country laden down with heavy suitcases would pour out of the main train and coach stations like swarms of starving Huns needing to find their way to hotels and guesthouses.

Yup, I was an enterprising young lad with a bit of a hustle on the prowl for a good tipper.