Looking out of the train window the landscape slowly changes from civilised hills and vertical structures to a flat slab of dirt and plant life. A perfectly straight line rules the division between land and sky like a child's crude painting. Slim roads twist and snake like retarded worms bending at random to avoid invisible obstacles. Old houses, fallen down barns and yards full of rusting junk dispose themselves around in remote and pointless locations. Signs of life materialise in the form of queuing cars at beeping level crossings as human shaped objects wait endlessly on humble and nameless railway platforms. The image is one of a flattened 'Nagasaki' like world razed of life with streams of survivors and refugees making pathetic attempts to flee a deadly radiation.

The truth is as always less glamorous. This is Lincolnshire; a desperate and lonely landscape of horizontal nothingness spattered with the vertical litter of electricity pylons and telegraph poles, standing uncomfortably like candles on a stillborn's birthday cake. This is a flat and banal land of vegetable farms and vegetative people. Those with imagination, intelligence and money attempt escape before roots can anchor them down. This is what governments and authorities consider 'rural': a label that presents an idyllic vision of wildlife, nature and a simple way of life. The truth is always less glamorous. While attention and resources are focused on 'inner cities' as the seeds of all human crime and depravity, this 'rural' area has become a haven for those unwilling to be caught in the net. The 'brain drain' of escapees with any sense has caused schools, councils, police authorities and industry to be the home of all those unskilled, incompetent and unable to find employment elsewhere. Ineffective teachers in ineffective schools churn out an annual spew of undisciplined and uneducated monsters. Ineffective civil servants squander pitiful funding on inefficient practices and bureaucracy. Spartan police authorities starved of imagination, vision and basic equipment pick at the surface of the scab before deciding the effort is not worth the paperwork.

The climate is exploited by groups and individuals, while the substandard administration fails to log, report or notice deficiencies in education, policing and employment standards. Cumulative bungling affects a statistical false positive situation, prompting further cuts in funding and resources. This area is invisibly deteriorating though the inability to recognise and report its own inadequacies.

The landscape scrolls past the window as if on a roller, cranked by hand on a bad 'B Movie' film set. Someone has written 'Fuck' in lipstick on the scratched glass, which almost seems like a subtitle or minimalist review. I smudge the lipstick with my finger to make sure it is not a projected thought. A man with a tattoo on his face and old army surplus parka is knocking back cheap lager three seats away. His belching makes the air thick with the odour of hops, vomit and cheese and onion crisps.

"eh? this the Sleaford train? Eh?"

He says, desperately searching for eye contact. I pretend not to notice or hear him, even though we are the only two people in the carriage. We had already passed Sleaford. The carriage doors swish open like a Star Trek parody and a rail guard steps through the opening armed with ticket machine swinging at the hip.

"Tickets, tickets for Sleaford" he drones, boredom oozing out of every nasal vowel. His top shirt buttons are undone revealing a gold chain and two tone sunburn. A home made tattoo on his wrist exclaims "DAD" in blurred green/black capitals. I imagine him standing in the corner of a room, drooling and staring blankly into space with whitened eyes. Two inquisitive children play skipping games around him and whisper secrets to each other. They wonder what the object in the corner is and notice the letters on his wrist. They spell out the letters "D... A... D..." and look at each other more confused than before.

"Does this train go to Nottin... er Nottingham?"

Face tattoo man dribbles the question as a desperate plea for attention. I imagine him tiny and lost in a department store, crying for his mother and grabbing at any giant adult hand that passes by. DAD taps buttons on the ticket machine looking for answers. I look out the window and their words join into a muffled soup, as if my neglect causes them to be suffocated by murderous hands when out of sight.

The train slows from an uneasy crawl to a free wheeling slither, every rivet and crack now translating through the seat as individual punches rather than the collective vibrations of the previous 'speed'. The green and brown lattice of ditches and fields dissolve into the flat-line horizon as urban industrial parks make an unwanted entrance like a salesman through a pensioners doorway. I look into the gardens of red brick houses backing onto the railway line and see broken plastic scooters and frail cages of self-assembly climbing frames. Bright white UPVC conservatories conspicuously shine out like new trainers on an ageing tramp. A metallic squeak launches into a grating rhythm accompanied by a dull odour of burnt oil and diesel fumes. The carriage dances a convulsive shimmy as if mesmerised by the voodoo drumming of iron wheels over girders and sleepers. I begin to see a town I remember as we struggle round the corner. Much in this moment could shake me with nausea : the movement, the smells, the company but my stomach is instead filled with an unusual tension by the sight of the town. My intestines fight an internal conflict of memories vs. memories; a stalemate match between revulsion and sentimentality. Imagine a sensation conjured by the notion of 'home' with hot food and warm slippers bound tight with a belt of contrasting fear, cold rain and pure hatred. The train grumbles to a stop; complaining all the way in a language of creaks, scrapes and squealing strung out tones. The carriage doors open semi sci-fi style and people wrestle to get in and get out at the same time and space. I sit for a moment and read the station sign as if willing it to change. 'Boston', it reads in flaking sign-written letters. 'Boston', again in the same old brushstrokes. 'Boston', it says in a functional workmanlike tone, always the same, no matter how many times I read it. "Boston sir?" says DAD, as if offering up a fresh silky turd on a silver platter. "Boston, your stop?" he muffles, becoming strangulated again by my ignorance. I read the sign again; 'Boston' - no change. "This is your stop sir" says DAD like a voice out of a cloud. 'This is my stop', an idea I grasped several years ago. This is my stop and I can't get out.

I touch down in Boston, the town where I was born and the symbolic reminder to my lack of progression. Life = movement, development, progression and evolution. Death = stasis. Moving backwards always grates on natural and physical laws. Returning to your mothers womb would be an unpleasant and tasteless experience and in the same way, returning to the origins you left behind can be as uncomfortable as a dark hair in the throat.

I stand on the platform in my interview suit, feeling like a caterpillar in a jar of maggots. Commuters with laptops and cell-phone monologues never get off here. A suit in Boston is always a rare sight, seen only at funerals, weddings and unpromising court appearances. The station is devoid of human life, apart from a flashing glimpse of 'face tattoo man' disappearing into the distance on a much too small bicycle. Unseen pigeons 'coo' a boring conversation as cigarette butts trace circles in the wind. Silence. Relative silence; cars pass in the near distance. The bass of expensive stereos in cheap second-hand cars mumble rhythmically like senile grandparents. All these sounds are only realised through the relative silence now the train has gone, departed, its lights now heading for the horizon. I wonder how long I have been standing here staring and motionless - I check my watch to see if it will give me any answers... 7:14pm and no answers.

I walk the streets of Boston, putting off the inevitable and giving fate and destiny every chance to throw something new my way. Unfortunately fate and destiny never get off the train at Boston. I drift into the town centre kicking at occasional litter and detritus left over from the days shopping frenzy. A gang of seagulls swoop down erratically to pick at chunks of discarded food trodden and mashed into the asphalt until passing cars send the panicked raiders squealing for cover. This is the 'dead time'; the no-man's-land divide between zones of 'shopping time' and 'drinking time': when the town's young blood gets watered down. The only activity comes from the steady stream of 'hot-hatches' and boxy runabouts stopping at cash-machines and throttling away ready for the next session of consumption.

I sit for a while in the central roundabout and watch a middle aged couple kissing and indulging in the kind of baby talk that only an adult could utter. They are both dressed in a style much younger than their years; either an attempt to enthral and capture the opposite sex or to recapture some of what time has gradually stolen. Unfortunately they have sculpted themselves from images and memories of their own past youth; as reflected fragments of Elvis Presley and Dolly Parton dressed in modern chain-store clothing. Wandering hands search for gaps and buttons or accessible flesh. Dolly's hide seems loose, hanging off the bones like the skin of month old roadkill.

I listen to the conversations of passing pub-crawl socialites; the giggling jabber of fat girls performing balancing tricks on vertigo heels and barking males swapping chat up lines and battle orders. In this dialogue only volume is important; in both decibels and word count. Frequently those that shout the loudest usually have the least to say, but unfortunately only in content not quantity. I become convinced that somehow the process of evolution has been set into reverse and wonder what specific event in time was responsible. Was it the invention and mass production of lager or the birth control pill, or is the evolutionary process somehow elliptical; a pre-programmed loop reaching a peak then returning to the foundation? I feel slightly cheered by the thought of all of this reduced to a crude chemical soup and wonder if John George Haigh was in fact a visionary instead of a murdering scumbag.

Elvis and Dolly spring into song surrounded by a chorus line of flabby thighs and Adidas clad legs high kicking can-can style at floating heads. A head bounces to highlight words in a karaoke lyric stream while a sign constructed of burning tyres spells out 'Presley & Parton". A sea of tattooed hands rise to flick the wheels of cheap disposable lighters as Dolly sings an emotional lament:

Yeah! Boston, what are you good for?
Only road deaths? heroin?
Unemployed illegal working and bigoted small town ideologies?

Elvis knee-slides into centre stage and throws shapes with a stringless guitar. A shaking sovereign ringed hand points like a pistol as he drawls a substandard verse:

Ah! ten, twenty, thirty, forty years away.
Listen to the answers, they will always be the same,
Let me tell you of the 'small town' disease.

A car glides in on a cushion of mail-order neon. The Ford Escort's blackened windows reflect distorted versions of twisted faces until virtual normality is reached. A vicious rhythm beats muffled and restrained in the metal shell like a next-door neighbour's argument. A rapid surge of power sees the windows disintegrate into a billion shards, creating a sky full of razor fireworks. The free sound, loose from its mobile bondage enjoys petty liberty by killing the ears of strangers with samurai precision. An eruption of dancers discharge from a fractured sunroof coated in leisure suits and Americana; creating a jerky epileptic ballet of fake sexual positions and urban fight moves.

Out of the troupe a hooded figure self-generates, murdering a tune by riffing and singing clusters of notes when one would suffice. A trail of alcoholic urine drips from polyester and acrylic clothing, forming the word 'COCK' on the asphalt. Scale runs and vibrato dominate the soundscape and somehow, somewhere between the vocal ornamentation, words are heard:

The people adverse to change,
Hostile towards diversity
Insistent against evolution
Critical of Progression
Killing the spirit of civilisation and the social instinct

The ensemble builds with layered repetitions of "Boston, what are you good for?" in overlapping crack whore harmonies. Elvis fakes Kung Fu as overweight women throw dirty laundry in automatic appreciation - seemingly oblivious to the lack of rhyme, metre, or anything in particular. The unarticulated vocal machine intensifies its spiralling perpetual white noise, looping for infinity before unpredictably halting in a tableau of bad breath smiles and detox jazz hands. Fists punch the air and the faces between as 'hi-fives' and amphetamine wraps are exchanged as celebratory prizes. Presley and Parton are robbed, killed and eaten as ritual sacrifice to the lords of chaos, Columbia and for the sake of something to do.

Elvis and Dolly sit giggle-talking and feel-searching each other for erogenous zones. Stray dogs sniff at dropped burgers and then mount each other. I vomit into a discarded kebab carton and head to my brother's house.