The multi-coloured minibus danced to the deep bass reggae beat. It was 2a.m., and the road was deserted.
The inside of the van was a thick cloud of sickly-sweet smoke which obscured the seven white Rastafarians who were making their way back from a Bob Marley tribute band in Brixton.
The passengers were singing, “I shot the sheriff …” pausing only to take a hit from the bong
“Hey, Dude! I think I and I is lost,” muttered the driver. “Dat sign said Birmingham ahead. I think dat I and I’s on da wrong motorway! I should’ve passed Nottingham by now.”