Slurp

I like to think of myself as being an enlightened, tolerant man. I eat many types of vegetables; I embrace people of different faiths, sometimes three at a time; and I hardly ever mock people who stammer (although I consider it my duty to point it out).

But despite my unquestionable British fairmindedness, there's one thing that instantly makes me want to disregard my civilised self and go on a murderous rampage: people who slurp their drinks.

This morning there was a slurper in my train carriage. I watched him get on, clutching his grande-decaf-skinny-latte-whatever and amble to a nearby seat. The scruffy sod. I knew it was trouble; I have a sense for trouble of the slurping type.

Then it began, slurp, slurp, slurp. The bastard. 73 times he disturbed my karma. I counted them. Slurp, slurp, one slurp every three seconds. I timed them. Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp. God only knows how many slurps he'd have managed had I not taken action.

It was an instinctive; I wasn't really in control. I didn't even realise I'd opened my lunch box, reached inside and taken out the pork pie. So it was as much a surprise to me as anyone else when I threw it, hard, at his big, stupid, slurping face.

The slurping stopped. I think I broke his nose. Some skinny-binny-grande-slurpachino was splashed over a few other passengers. You'd have thought they'd have understood really, but no, they seemed angry with me! The police were called. I was obliged to leave the train (two stops early). It was worth it though.

The waves, they wash over your face, but if you stay underwater long enough they wash away your skin.