"Some things are simply made for filth," Rupert replies sagely, including himself and club music in that bracket. The car flies along leaving clouds of white dust in their wake; there's no one around for miles and Rupert feels alive with the overwhelming freedom that comes with everything in this beautiful, mad, modern world.

"What's punk music like?" He asks over the combined racket of the snarling engine and the frenetic radio music, and throws Cassidy a challenging grin. "Come on, Irishman, sing me a song!"