Cologne main station, McDonalds, 3 a.m

The Mac Donalds at Cologne Central Station is as crass as it gets. I sit here for the last two hours waiting for my morning train. At first I think about finishing Feuerstein’s Travelling on the iPod. But that would be a waste. I’m sitting in the middle of a gay zombie film.

There’s a bum sleeping in a mayonnaise stain in the corner. I hope. Opposite, a whole group. Completely strulle they keep tipping penny beer into their cappuccino cups. They have a seventh sense, because the bottle always disappears exactly when an employee comes round the corner, and he often does.

A group of actors and dancers are sitting at the next table. It’s all about tutus, style and “the gorgeous new director”. Kisses here and groping there. A girl with really hot slippers on her legs screeches that they should move into a gay club now. A gay couple refuses, hiccuping heavily. I’m afraid of the involuntary rebirth of a McSundae sundae.

Opposite, one of the bums farts and looks around mischievously to see if everyone has heard. The Russian girls next door have, look at each other and then away. The air from over there now smells much more pleasant than before. The farting man, now fully aware of his attention, tries to start a conversation about boxing with the Russian girls. His cronies tell him to please refrain from the boxing gestures, threatening to withdraw his love.

I go outside and have a smoke. Three railway policemen pass by. I’ve probably had a special night, because even they are philosophising about some groupings as they look through the windows. A night owl pees against the rear tyre of the last taxi in the row. The driver notices and gets out. I get back in.

Mr Lohengrin is now sitting diagonally opposite. Noble loden coat, Humphrey Bogart hat. He smells of cigars and whiskey, looks around the whole time as if he’s lost someone here. Then he starts singing softly. Another gay couple thinks they recognise a song by the Village People. That’s not it, but after five minutes the three of them leave anyway.

On the left, I’m suddenly startled by a couple sitting down. Man and woman? They’re even arguing about the chips. She gets up angrily after a while and rushes off into the night. He sits still and chews a burger listlessly. The bums opposite grin at him, somehow gloating.

A white hoodie sits down next to me. He tries to give a book to the black guy diagonally opposite, but he doesn’t want Christmas presents from strangers. That annoys the white boy. “You know Tupac was popped, I was popped, but we all still have to feel something.” Then to me: “I’ve got a laptop with me too, but you know, the crime here…”. I reach for his Reclam book. It’s Faust.