I filmed this game of senior citizen Jenga on my phone in a bar area at a local hotel during a break in my salsa class. The lady’s reaction to toppling the jenga tower is just fantastic!

Important note: no old people were harmed in the making of this film…

I was using a supermarket self-checkout today, processing my items to the repetitive drone of “please place your item in the bagging area.” Next to me, an older couple were battling to put through their items of shopping, some (most) of which included bottles of alcohol. Most of you will be aware that when you buy alcohol at a self-checkout the attendant has to check your age. So, in this instance, their checkout light went red and a message popped up on their screen. Here is a transcript of the conversation that followed:

Lady: “Why is it telling us that we have to wait for assistance?”
Attendant: “We have to check your age to ensure you aren’t underage”
Lady: “Ah, ok. I suppose I should take it as a compliment, really? Ha ha ha…”

For some reason, I took umbrage at her stupid remark. I just about managed to hold back from vociferating in response:

“So, you think this piece of electronic equipment has a brain, do you? That’s mistake number one. Mistake number two is thinking that if it did have a brain, it would be stupid enough to think that you, a haggard old alcoholic woman who smells of musky piss and morning fresh, are actually a voluptuous 17-year-old woman with the face of an angel.”

“Oh, and, by the way, you should assume that the card payment machine thinks you’re trustworthy, that the supermarket’s automatic door likes you and that your trolley knows where your car is parked. Good luck!”

Today, I have decided to work from Costa; as a break from being at home. I’ve got my coffee, I’ve got my sandwich and I’ve got my berry muffin. Unfortunately for me, I’ve also “got” a teenage couple sitting on the table next to me. These two teenagers have clearly just discovered the delights of kissing (they’re sitting there sucking each other’s faces off). Now, anyone normal would find a corner somewhere to engage in this private and newly-exciting activity. But, no, they’re literally sitting right in the middle of Costa.

I could move all my stuff (laptop, jacket, bag, coffee, sandwich) onto another table nearby. But, instead, I’m going to sit here, moan lots and think up some mischievous ideas for what to do next. I could:

1. Tell them to get a room at a hotel (one that allows children!)
2. Tut loudly
3. Do nothing (and plug my earphones in)… far too sensible, that one!
4. Hit them. Lots.
5. Start singing. Perhaps a song such as “it started with a kiss…” by Hot Chocolate. I wonder, is there a song called “f*** off and do that somewhere else before I strangle you with my scarf and bury you both in a plant pot!!”
6. Find the nearest supermarket, buy a can of beans, scoff the lot and… well, you can probably guess the rest…
7. Take photographs, threaten to tell their parents and then blackmail them for everything they’ve got (£2.43 in pocket money and half a packet of Chewits)

They clearly think they’re invisible to everyone and that everyone in Costa is hard-of-hearing. I am, at this very moment, wondering whether such a public display of teenage passion is a decent motive for murder.

Maybe I’m just jealous. Do you think I’m jealous? When I was a teenager, I was just happy for a girl to notice me (usually followed by a face of disgust or a comment of “why are you standing outside the girls’ changing rooms?”). I’m not bitter…

Oh crap. I’ve just noticed. I’m looking around at the other tables in here and EVERYONE is a teenager. I’ve accidentally walked into the local puberty asylum. There’s only one thing for it, I’m going to have to put on some tracksuit bottoms, spray myself with 13 cans of Lynx deodorant and don a baseball cap.

You know what, I’m going to be a bit nicer to this couple. I mean, we were all young once. I haven’t eaten my muffin yet, so I could give them that… in small pieces… projected with velocity at their faces!! No, you know what, I’ll go and buy them a present… do they sell Chlamydia Test gift tokens in Boots?

When I was deliberating over whether to write a blog article about my time in Sofia, Bulgaria, I considered putting it to a public vote. It would have been simple – shake your head to vote ‘yes‘ or nod your head to vote ‘no‘. Notice the problem with that? No, don’t nod for your answer, that just confuses things…

I was in Bulgaria for one week and I must say that during that time I felt both baffled and bemused with the whole ‘head nod’ means “no” and ‘head shake’ means “yes” idea. Bulgaria is, apparently, the only place in the world where this is the case – it’s the opposite of everywhere else. I have to say that I’ve never felt so popular with women and then been hit by such esteem-crushing realisation… I wish women in the UK would give me similarly enthusiastic head-nods when I ask THEM if they want to sleep with me…

I find myself puzzling over where this communications concept came from. I mean, Great Uncle Bulgaria (the womble who founded Bulgaria as a nation) must have been smoking pot when he decided:

I know, let’s switch things around and make this country like no other in the world. Let’s make the head nod mean no… oh, and let’s change the body language so that when someone says ‘yes’, they shake their head and act utterly miserable and pissed off! Yeah, that’ll really confuse the foreigners and keep them out of our country and away from our rubbish bins… (ok, enough of the womble jokes!)

On to transportation now. The tram and bus systems seem quite well organised in Sofia. They go underground, overground (wombling free…). However, their ticket systems really do need a re-think. You buy a book of ten tickets and use one ticket each time you get on the tram / bus. You punch it using the little machines attached to the sides of the bus. Obviously, when I say you “punch it”, you don’t stand there in the middle of a crowded bus jabbing it with your fist… “take that you little bastard!” Instead, you subtly lean across the seated passengers, thrust your armpit in their face, push the ticket into the little hole punch and then push down on the puncher. If you’re very unlucky, a miserable-old-bastard ticket inspector will get on during your journey, look at your ticket and then demand to see your next / previous / previous year’s ticket in order to satisfy himself that you do own your ticket and that someone else hasn’t given it to you in an act of amazing hospitality rarely seen anywhere in Bulgaria (no, I am being unkind there!).

Onto the subject of sex now (well, I like to include the subject in most of my blogs). During my Bulgarian experience I noticed that the hotels like to accessorise their rooms with little luxuries – some expected and some not quite so expected. I took a photograph of some of them (left): soap, shower cap, shower gel, condom….

It’s a Bulgarian’s mini prostitute bathroom kit (prostitution is legal in Bulgaria). Get em to have a good shower beforehand… (I don’t mean a bathroom kit for Bulgarian midget prostitutes, by the way…)

When it comes to patience, Bulgarians seem to have little of it. I experienced this first-hand with my plane flights. No sooner had the plane touched down on the runway than the seatbelts were off and people were up on their feet opening the overhead lockers (which were crammed to bursting with cases). The fact that the aircraft was still travelling along at 80mph was seemingly unimportant. However, their desperation to get off the plane was not matched by their attempt to get to Passport Control. Indeed, their enthusiasm seemed to dissipate as soon as they took a step off the plane… switching to a slow-motion amble. Having waited until last to leave the plane (for my own safety), I found myself weaving in and out of people like a formula one car overtaking milk floats.

The impatience of Bulgarians is also demonstrated when it comes to driving. From weaving taxi drivers, whose idea of screenwash is to stick their arm out of the window and throw bottled water across their windscreen, to drivers who will not be defeated by steep hills covered in ice. They’ll find a way to do what they want if it kills them. And if you get in the way, you’ll get the horn (so to speak)…

I very much enjoyed my trip to Bulgaria and meeting the people there. But, I have to say that their mannerisms took a bit of getting used to. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry…

Whether you love it or hate it, texting has become a major part of our daily lives. From keeping in touch with our friends to competitions and promotional offers on television and radio, these days we struggle to be away from our mobile phones for any length of time.

I saw a classic example of the promotional use of texting today whilst watching daytime television. A quiz was sponsored by a de-congestant and they were enticing people to find out more information by texting the word “mucus” to them. Lovely! What next?…

Latest offer: Win a pair of underpants. Simply text the words “I’ve soiled myself and my spare pair are in the washing machine” to 63352

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had numerous discussions with friends about frustrating text message conversations. Based upon those stories, I thought I’d write a post listing some typically frustrating types of text chat. You’ve probably been involved in some of the following types of conversation before:

Textual Harassment

This label applies to those people who bombard us with text messages. I’m sure you’ve been in the situation before where you finish writing a text message, hit send and a reply arrives back on your phone before you’ve even had the chance to put it down and take a sip of your tea. By replying, you’re signing a mini-contract to waste the best part of your day engaging the other person in pointless chatter. What a waste of bloody time!

Textual harrassers will, invariably, end up becoming stalkers and/or participants in late-night radio phone-ins.

Textual Dysfunction

Texts arrive on your phone but don’t make sense. Why? Because they are full of:

1. mis-spelled words
2. txt speak… E.G: “b4 u go out l8r dont 4get 2 put ur shoes on”
3. words that have been changed by the ‘predictive text’ on the sender’s phone

Beware of number 3. A casual phrase, such as this one describing your dinner preparations:

“I have topped off the plate with some peas”

can easily become:

“I have tossed off the slave with some pear”

Now, you’d think that people would read a message through before sending it. But, no. People suffering with textual dysfunction are busy using their single brain cell for another use (breathing, probably) and so have no available capacity do this. As a consequence, you spend half an hour deciphering the message. Text conversations with textual dysfunction sufferers are a constant frustration.

Premature Text Ejaculation

This occurs when someone gets half way through writing a message and then accidentally pushes the send butt…

Textual Frustration

You send an important text message requiring a quick response and stare longingly at your mobile phone – waiting for a reply to come back – for days on end. Nothing. Has the message arrived on the recipient’s phone? Should you send it again? Perhaps they have replied, but it didn’t send properly. One thing’s for sure, you can’t possibly pick up the phone and call them (that’s far too sensible) so you’ll have to just sit there and get frustrated until you end up throwing your phone at the wall (and missing, with your prized iPhone smashing straight through your 54 inch plasma television). Now you’re even more cross…

Tosser… I’ll never speak to him ag… ah, what’s that bleeping sound coming from inside the television?

Those who engage in textual harassment tend to regularly suffer from textual frustration… usually within about 5 seconds of sending their message.

Rebound Text

This occurs when you dump your existing phone, after becoming bored with the features, and get a new model, with a new number. You must immediately send out the obligatory message to your entire contact list (3 people) to make them aware of your new number.

Textual Depravity

This label can be given to those people who regularly indulge in sending rude and tasteless jokes.

We all like a funny joke or two. However, there are some people who not only text jokes around to their entire address book, but also consider themselves to be the King/Queen of party entertainment. They pull their phone out of their pocket at gatherings and recite their entire list of jokes to everyone in the room. They chortle loudly at their own jokes, thinking they’re funny. However, everyone just thinks they’re a tosser.

Textual Tension

This label is for a text conversation where, due to the fact that text lacks emotion, something is misread and interpreted the wrong way, leading to a fight. Your sarcastic message to your other half telling him/her “thanks for cooking me dinner tonight, I wish I could say it was delicious…” may well receive the reply of “well, f*ck off then, you can cook next time…” This mistake is an expensive one, usually requiring flowers, chocolates and plenty of grovelling (in person and in text)…

To Conclude:

Far from being joyous, texting can be an inconvenient and frustrating pain in the arse. It’s time to take a good look at yourself. Do you fall into one of these categories? If so, keep it to your bloody self!!!

Yesterday, I was strolling happily through a London tube station when I spotted an attractive lady with the word “love” emblazened across her chest. As I passed her by, a question popped into my head: does she love her ample bosom or does she want me to love it? Furthermore, does she have two different t-shirts, with the ‘hate’ one being reserved for her ‘time of the month’ or moments where she suffers with particularly low self-esteem?

I was clearly giving the whole moment too much thought, as I began debating whether to go out looking for a t-shirt with “marriage” written across it. Afterall, if the saying is correct, her and I would go together like a horse and carriage! That’s a very old phrase though – these days it should probably be updated to “love and marriage, love and marriage, he’ll end up an alcoholic and she’ll smell of cabbage.” Yes, I know what you’re thinking – it is a rather sad statement. But, there is some truth in the thought that marriage is like a deck of cards – at first, all you need is two hearts and a diamond. Years later, all you want is a club and a spade.

Anyway, I very much enjoyed the lady’s outburst of love (I suspect that the wonderbra helped quite a lot with that).

On Friday evening I attended my second speed dating event. For those who haven’t read about the first action-packed speed dating adventure, you can read it here.

Now, I believe that it’s very important to make the right impression at these events. You should walk in with enthusiasm and a positive and happy attitude. First impressions are important – you need to demonstrate that you’re fun, confident and have a passion for life. Seemingly, no-one had mentioned all of that to the man who walked in, plonked himself on the sofa in the corner, fell asleep and started dribbling on his own shoulder. I felt very tempted to walk over and draw a Poirot moustache on him…

Friday’s speed dating event took place at the Oceana club in Brighton in one of their many themed rooms. We were in the ‘Parisian Boudoir.’ It is described as “intimate and plush” with velvet cushions and a seating area in the middle that resembles a four poster bed. In short, an ideal location for a detective murder mystery or a 19th century swingers party.

Before beginning the speed dating, I think it’s always important to have a quick scan of the competition (not just to check for electronic tags). Scanning the room, the other men looked as nervous and scared as a guide dog in a Korean takeaway. The two lovely hosts (bonus points for me when they read this), Emma and Casey, signed everyone in with the words “here’s your date sheet and your pen” – they should then have continued with “and here’s a complimentary Valium. The emergency exits are *here, here and here* and we encourage you to relax, not to look like you’re about to shit yourself – this isn’t the bloody dentist!”

Have you ever been speed dating? Here’s a quick re-cap for those who haven’t. Ten women sit at numbered tables (or laying on plush beds), 10 men rotate around them and chat awkwardly for 5 minutes about nothing in particular whilst trying not to yawn, spit out bits of their dinner or discuss the current state of the economy. At the end of the allotted time, there’s a shake of hands, a tick of a box (‘date,’ ‘friend’ or ‘no thanks’) and a quick memo of “reminds me of Hercule Poirot and seems to have a strange stain on his shoulder” in the ‘notes’ section. Then it’s on to the next victim…

To aid my own conversations on Friday, I came up with another useful list of questions to ask. These included:

• Which womble would you be?
• What is your favourite allergy?
• Do you believe in hate at first sight?
• Have you ever pollenated a tomato plant using an electric toothbrush?
• What’s in your freezer? (an exciting variation on the ‘what’s in your fridge’ question from last time and an opportunity to catch out the psychopaths)
• Do you like my electronic tag – it’s even got pretty, flashing lights on it…?

The event was fun and much hilarity was had. By the time we got to the end, even ‘Poirot‘ looked like he was enjoying himself.

Following the event, a few of us got together to chat with a drink. One guy recounted the story of a previous speed date involving a disabled man who was speaking using a computer and voice synthesiser. That brought into my head the very humorous vision of Professor Stephen Hawking on a speed date…

A day or so after the speed dating, I was sitting in a cafe and received the email containing my results. Just as I was opening the email, a message which informed me that no-one had ticked my ‘date’ box (though 6 ticked ‘friend’), a Bee Gees song began playing in the background. The irony was not lost on me… “Tragedy… when the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on it’s a tragedy… it’s hard to bear, with no-one to love you you’re going nowhere…”

For those who haven’t read my last speed dating article, it is available here.

Do you have any funny speed dating experiences?

Yesterday evening, I decided to take the plunge and try speed dating. This is the story of the events that occurred. I was somewhat nervous to start off with – excusable considering I was a ‘speed dating virgin’ – but in the end it proved to be an enjoyable and fun evening.

In preparation for the event, I scoured the Internet for some advice and tips and also some suggestions for questions that I could ask. The advice was useful, but the question suggestions were either boring or ones that I’d rather smash a pint glass over my head than ask. For example, “So, which character in friends do you most identify with?” Uh!

On the evening of the event, I arrived at the pub and was presented with a card on which there were a series of boxes. I was told to write the number and name of each lady in the left hand column boxes after I had sat down and made my introduction. Next to those were 3 smaller tick boxes – “date,” “friend” and “no thanks.” Notable by their absence were the options for “quick shag outside by the back wall,” “restraining order” and “call the police, I’ve seen this guy on Crimewatch.”

There was also a column on the sheet marked “notes”, in which we could write facts about the person in order to aid our memory in the time that followed the event. Such scribbles could include “psychopath,” “reminds me of Margaret Thatcher” and “DO NOT GIVE YOUR PHONE NUMBER TO THIS LADY EVEN IF YOU ARE COMPLETELY PISSED!” Obviously, we were told not to write the notes infront of the person whilst talking to them. E.G: “I notice you have a glass eye, spit when you talk and look like my best friend’s ugly aunt, I’ll just make a quick note of that on my sheet…”

Helpfully, on the reverse of the card there were some ideas listed for questions that we could ask if we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of an awkward silence (so, no need for me to use my emergency ‘Friends character‘ question). Bizarrely, one of those questions was “what’s in your fridge?” It was so ridiculously random that I used it several times throughout the evening (phrased in a jokey manner). It did, however, backfire on me on one occasion, where the lady spent the following minute and a half listing everything in her fridge… I actually tried interrupting her in the middle, but she refused to stop until she had named everything. Perhaps a sign of OCD? (I used the time to jot that down on my ‘notes’ sheet whilst she was finishing her fridge items list). Definite traits of a Monica there (albeit a bit older).

We had a mammoth 7 minutes to talk to each lady, with 10 ladies in total. They stayed on the same sofa/chair/bar stool/hammock (no, not really) whilst the men rotated around the room looking like cows being led to the slaughter house. The 7 minutes seemed like a long time at first, but actually flew by on every occasion… with the exception of one. During that particular episode, the lady repeatedly answered my questions with one-word, nondescript answers – she was definitely a Phoebe!

There was a real mixture of women at the event and I got along well with all of them. Some were being very serious about the whole thing. E.G:

Lady: “I come to these regularly to find dates… what’s your star sign please?”
Me: “I’m not sure, but I think it’s in the constellation with Uranus…”
Lady: ………

Other ladies were taking things less seriously. With that being said, I was disappointed not to get an opportunity at any point to ask a question from my list of unusual questions, such as:

1. So, what is your stance on cannibalism?
2. Would you date a guy who lived in a tent?
3. Why don’t sheep shrink in the rain?
4. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Bill Cosby? (no, I obviously wasn’t intending to use that one)

After all the 7 minute torture sessions where over, everyone headed to the bar to relax, and, in the case of a few people, get completely shit-faced. The results weren’t pretty – at one point one of the ladies pulled down the top of her trousers to show me her ‘Mr Tickle’…

Anyway, enough about tattoos of Mr Men characters (well, what else did you think I was talking about?). This speed dating event was fun. However, due to the fact that I had chosen an “over 30s” event, everyone there was older than me and most were over 40 (hey, I still got 3 phone numbers). It’ll be interesting to compare it with a speed dating event for a 26-39 age group (which I hope to attend in a couple of weeks time). I suspect they will be less fun, more serious and won’t be arriving by way of their free bus passes…

…I wonder what they’ll have in their fridge? Hey, come to think of it, what have you got in yours?

Why not read my latest speed dating article, speed dating in the boudoir?

Well, it was inevitable. Your partner bought you cake and chocolates for your birthday and now they’re showing on your waist. You looked in the mirror today and your self-esteem dropped through the floor. Thank goodness your home was built well, otherwise you might have plummeted through the floor with it. With the weather being so cold outside, the idea of a run seems about as enviable as a night in doing your tax return. There’s only one thing for it – you’re going to have to make a visit to the gym…

Prising yourself out of the warmth of your home, and wearing your most fashionable leotard, you head along to the local fitness centre – Waist Management.

After paying your entrance fee, you squeeze through the turnstiles and are greeted with a plethora of torture devices. It’s decision time; should you try the rowing machine, the cross-trainer or the treadmill?

Decision time

As if things aren’t already uncomfortable enough for you, in your over-tight leotard, you’ve just spotted someone that you know and, inevitably, hate. It’s your work colleague, Hal (surname: Itosis), a man with a mouth so gargantuan that he could use a broom to brush his teeth. He enjoys winding you up with his sarcastic comments (whilst wafting a mixture of marmite and espresso breath past your nostrils). The annoying shit is leaning on the water machine trying to pretend he’s Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’ll no doubt take pleasure in watching you prance up and down on a cross-trainer looking like the back half of a pantomime cow.

Whilst thoughts of dread echo through your mind, one of the cross-trainers becomes free, as the man drags himself off and crawls away towards the water machine. He’s left behind a present for you – his sweat; all over the machine.

After dragging the entire contents of the paper towel dispenser across the room, tripping up several people in the process, you dry the cross-trainer, clamber on and start your exercising. You set the machine to level 1 difficulty so that you can move really fast and look far more impressively fit than you are. Instead of looking at you, everyone will be looking at the guy to your left, Jim, who is struggling on level 10 (whilst listening to ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ from the Rocky film). You’ve nicknamed him Jim because of his uncanny resemblance to Jimmy Saville.

A few minutes later…

After three minutes on the cross-trainer, you’re beginning to feel bored. No-one is sharing conversation (so much for the gym being a social thing). Instead, everyone around you is wearing earphones; plugged into their music mix of Lady GaGa, Bon Jovi and the Village People. In need of something to break the tedium, you stare at the television that sits bolted to the wall at the front of the room. It’s showing music videos. Well, they’re supposed to be music videos. They actually seem to be a mixture of nudity, sadomasochism and debauchery… with lyrics that you can’t actually hear.

Ten minutes more hard work go by…

You’re kicking up quite a sweat. The realisation then hits you that you’ve been in a trance for the last five minutes – unable to drag your eyes from the hypnotic movement of the female walrus on the running machine in front. Determined not to focus on her repetitive buttock movement (RBM), you look back up at the television screen. The music channel has taken a commercial break and the television is now taunting you with an advert for fish and chips. Wow, that looks good…

There must be some consolation for this continued torture – the exercise must be doing you good. You’ve probably burned off enough calories for…. fish and chips. You look down at your screen for some statistics and it’s only too willing to show you – you’ve been exercising for 15 minutes, you’ve burned off 100 calories and your heart rate is…. it’s not showing. It was showing a minute ago, but now it’s not. That’s it then – you’re dead. You decide to warn Jim on the machine next to you that he may need to call an ambulance. He’s still got his headphones in, so you’ll need to scribble it down…. “Dear Jim, please can you fix it for me to have an ambulance, as I think my heart has stopped?”

Life and death

Ten minutes further on and you’re still alive and kicking – it looks as if you won’t need that ambulance after all. The same can’t be said for poor Jim, who is laying face down on the floor. A brief, cruel smirk rises across your face as you remember that he was, ironically, listening to a song by Survivor ten minutes ago.

Looking around at the other people in the room, the walrus has finished on her running machine and is now fiddling with her briefs to try and extract them from her bottom. The gym instructor is looking frustrated at the immense pile of paper towel sitting on the floor next to your cross-trainer… you decide not to acknowledge him and hope that he doesn’t realise you were responsible. Wondering where Hal’s gone, you look behind you and realise that he’s been on the weight machines staring hypnotically at your bottom for the last 20 minutes. The shit – he’s going to have a field day with this one.

You’ve finished!

After finishing your workout, you stagger to the water machine. As you stand there, feeling tired but good, the paramedics carry Jim past you on a stretcher. The poor bugger.

Gym session over. Tomorrow you’re going to feel stiffer than a w*nker’s hanky. The question is: which will hurt more – the aching from your gym session or the sarcastic comments from Hal?

Right, time for fish and chips….

Today I’m going to have a rant about something (or rather, ‘someone’) that really pisses me off…

The guy (or woman – this isn’t a gender-specific annoyance) who walks into a cafe on a cold day and leaves the door open. It only takes 2 seconds to close the door and save everyone from a chilling blast of arctic cold up their jacksey.

Yet this idiot, wearing his super-thick winter coat, doesn’t think about that, does he?

So, what happens next?

You get up from your chair and walk across to ‘ferme la porte‘, ensuring that you slam it hard enough that the noise resonates around the room and shakes all the pictures off the walls. Everyone looks up at you, except for the ignorant ‘merde‘ who left it ajar in the first place. You then trudge back to your seat (although in your mind you’re walking up to the man, grabbing his head and bashing it onto the counter infront of him).

You sit down, feeling irritated, and continue with what you were doing (the crossword in the newspaper, in which, coincidentally, the answer to 4 across is ‘tosspot’ – well, it’s not really, but it does fit, so f*ck it!)

Just as your mood begins to return to somewhere near normality, the inevitable happens. The guy has ordered take-away and, having paid for his sandwich and coffee by emptying the entire collection of loose change from his wallet, bag and coat pockets into a heap on to the counter, he opens the door and goes to walk out. You’re waiting for him to either shut the door behind him or give you the motive for murder.

Instead, he taunts you by doing neither and begins a long goodbye speech to the cafe owner (with the door wide open). Well, that’s enough for you – you get up off your chair, spilling the unfinished crossword to the floor, and sprint across the room, slamming the door in his face and knocking him and his coffee half way down the street. That’ll teach the little ‘4 across!’