Could be any given weekend; anywhere in the UK
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PC Morrison really hates working Saturday nights.
"Do you expect me to believe this is a genuine passport?"
The taller drunk-and-disorderly nods vigorously. "Course it is. See," he says, leaning over the policeman's shoulder to tap the photo, "looks just like me."
It does, and if wasn't for the completely ridiculous name and date of birth, PC Morrison wouldn't be to tell it was a forgery.
"And I suppose that's England, then," he scoffs, nodding towards the skinny blond communing rather messily with a nearby wheelie bin.
'Scotland' looks indignant. "Hey, I thought you said you didn't recognise us!"