They stand outside the station; their hands shoved in the pockets of faded shorts, covered almost completely by a shiny blue anorak, which is hanging on in the nineties with its bright yellow lapels. We don’t usually see these buxom men, who look like they know places. The skin is weathered from too much waiting outside venues come rain, snow or shine. Those thick, hairy legs look a little out of place next to the pile of commuters streaming past them, all suited and booted with dark black umbrella mushrooms protecting carefully pinned up hair. They can’t even pretend they’re there to spectate, like the Olympic fans who traipse from the tube with their waterproofs tied firmly around their waists, waving brightly coloured flags. You could almost guarantee the tout’s style of hair; a soft white whip piled to the front of their head - a bit like candy floss - or a slicked back sweep that I imagine they've perfected with one fine swoop. You know they're not fans, because they not even smiling. Although the gleaming white trainers are out, as if a poor attempt to connect with the pennies of passers-by.