Mark Andrews: What I learned from a night on the tiles in Milton Keynes

It wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be. And I wasn't expecting it to be much fun in the first place.

On my bucket list of things everyone should try before they die, I would suggest a night on the tiles in the foyer of Milton Keynes railway station should probably figure pretty close to the bottom.  

To start with, there's the seats. I don't know who designed them, but I think they should consider a career change. Maybe something in the North Korean government's torture and interrogation division, perhaps. Then there was the middle-aged man in combat fatigues, who insisted on playing extremely tedious podcasts on his mobile phone at considerable volume. And then there was the brass monkey in the corner, arms folded and teeth chattering, as he waited impatiently for his train to warmer climes. Like the South Pole or somewhere.

Boy, it was cold. I half expected a couple of SS guards to throw Steve McQueen into the room, as punishment for trying to dig a tunnel.

This was partly down to the design of the building, a charmless glass-fronted shed, with open exits to the platforms. Hardly helped by the faulty electric doors that kept randomly opening for no reason, letting in the outdoor chill. At least I assume they were faulty. It only occurred to me later maybe Milton Keynes is the go-to place for invisible, nocturnal train spotters. But had I thought of that crossed my mind at the time, it would have freaked me out even more. 

Then there was the friendly rough sleeper, who reckoned he knew me from somewhere, and decided to introduce himself. I guess you've drawn the short straw in life when you find yourself homeless in Milton Keynes. And then it dawned on me that the station had probably been designed to be an uncomfortable and unwelcoming place to spend the nigh, lest people like me and him made ourselves too much at home.

Now, I suppose I should explain that I haven't adopted the life of a hobo, and there was a genuine reason why myself and my brilliant long-time colleague Deborah ended  spending the night as vagrants in the Plastic City.

The previous night we had been representing this fine newspaper at the Society of Editors Media Freedom Awards at the Globe Theatre in London, where we won one gong, and were nominated for another. And what a wonderful night it was. As we arrived early, enjoying the majestic sight of an illuminated St Paul's Cathedral from across the Thames, I even began to reconsider my ingrained anti-London prejudices - for about 10 minutes. 

The food was exquisite, the wine even better, although mindful of the fact we had to drive home from the station afterwards, we imbibed in strict moderation. In the gents I found myself washing my hands next to Nick Ferrari, who was in fine form some 16 hours after going on air with his breakfast show. More seriously, it was a privilege to be honoured among some of the true giants of our trade, and humbling to see one's own front page beamed onto a large screen alongside some of the most famous scoops of the past year.

As you would expect, we planned our journey home with military precision, with a series of different options and back-up plans depending on what time we left. And me, being me, we managed to miss all of them.

It was as we began to make our way home that things started to go awry.

As the clock ticked by I anxiously waved my watch under Deborah's nose. 

"It will look rude if we walk out straight after our category," she whispered, quite rightly. The last direct train was at 11.30pm, so we dashed out leaving skidmarks in our wake as we left the theatre with 35 minutes to spare.

Maybe I've been watching too many episodes of Minder, but I assumed that in London you just step out into the street and hail a black cab, where some jack-the-lad regales quickly spirits you through the back streets of the Big Smoke while regaling you with tales about when he had Michael Caine in the back of his cab. What actually happened was that the streets were deserted, apart from a few other journalists starting to filter out of the ceremony.

"Haven't you got the Uber app?" asked an incredulous young reporter from ITV, as we frantically sought her help.

"You must be joking, I've still got an eight-track player in the car," I didn't actually reply.

The young lady almost saved our skin as she patiently talked us through the process, the important word here being 'almost'. We got to the station with one minute to spare - only to find that we still missed what must have been the first train in British railway history to actually leave early. 

An unsuccessful scramble across the city to see if we could get a coach back proved futile, so we headed back to Euston for the last train of the night, the 1.39am which for some bizarre reason terminated at Milton Keynes. Hence our night in Steve McQueen's cooler. 

Anyhow, I suppose as this is a newspaper column, and not my personal diary, I had better come up with some sort of message, an explanation of what the experience has taught me and what I would have done differently if I could rewind the clock. 

Well, obviously, I would have left enough time to get to the station. I would have booked a taxi during the interval, and left a good 10 minutes before it was due to arrive. It also convinced me of the idiocy of the 20mph blanket speed limit in central London, our cabbie was terrified of driving at anything above a snail's pace. And it also reinforced my other great prejudice, that any city renowned mainly for its traffic islands and concrete cows is probably best avoided.

And given my time again, had I known it would take me eight hours to get back to my car, I would definitely have made more use of the free wine. A lot more. 

But on a slightly more serious note, it was also a reminder to be sympathetic towards rough sleepers. Yes, they are unsightly, yes some of them are rude, and sure, many of them have made bad life choices. But having spent four hours in the lobby of a railway station, I find it hard to comprehend what it must be like bedding down on the pavement each night, even in January. 

I'm pretty sure that's a life no-one would choose.