the corner office

What's up with chavs and spitting? You have to keep your eyes down when walking around town; the pavements are peppered with oysters. I was walking to work this morning and a dude with his chunky jewellery and tracksuit hocked up this beast right in the doorway to a shop. I wasn't the only person who saw him do it, and he just didn't care. As always, part of me wanted to chirp the dude, but the chickenshit part of me reckoned it was best not to.

Oh well. I remember in my cycling days that it was a rite of passage to master the high-velocity, high-pressure nose blow. Sometimes you couldn't afford to rummage around in your jersey pocket to find a handkerchief, so onto the country road it went. Finger blocking one nostril, and let rip down the other. If you did it right, it was poetry in motion. If you did it wrong, people behind you in the pack would get mighty antsy.

At least chavs don't go around blasting snot onto the streets. Small mercies.