Vancouver

TAKING YOUR COAT OFF WHILE SITTING AT THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS.

You're stuck at the traffic lights, sweating bullets in the heavy overcoat you knew you shouldn't have worn, when the stupidest idea you'll ever have dances through your brain like an epileptic on roller-skates: "Maybe I could take my coat off! Here! In the car! In this tiny, enclosed space! Even though I've only got, say, 10 seconds until the lights change!"

So you go for it. You've got one eye on the lights, the other on the zipper. You're undoing the seatbelt with the left hand, frantically tugging at your sleeve with the right. Arms flail. You're knocking the windscreen wipers on, resetting the radio presents, altering the angle of the interior mirror.

And then - somehow, someway - you wriggle your way free. The truth is, no one's actually sure what happens if you don't remove your coat before the lights change.

All I know is, I don't want to be the one who finds out.

AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION.

Trust me -- you don't want to be standing between me and the exit during pantomime season. Because I will literally scratch a child's eyes out before I get up on that stage to perform the Macarena.

I don't give a **** who you are -- Puss in Boots, Dandini, Prince Charming -- if you come at me with that microphone and try to drag me up on stage, I'll drop you like a used condom.

And mother****er, don't even think about trying the whole "Come on ladies and gentlemen, give him a bit of encouragement" bull****.

Just know this: touch me one more time and -- panto or no panto -- I will bite your face.


THE 'I'M-NOT-YAWNING' FACE.

You're in an important meeting. You feel a yawn coming on. But you can't yawn. That would mean disgrace. So you strike on an ingenious idea: yawning while keeping your mouth closed.

Because then no one could possibly suspect that you're yawning. Never mind the fact that your entire face is stretching out like cling-film over a toilet basin, or that your eyelids are voilently flickering, or that your nostrils are flaring. You can't be yawning.

After all, your mouth is closed, so...


TAXI DRIVER SMALLTALK.

I'm uniquely appalling at Taxi Driver Smalltalk. I want to say: "There's an extra two bucks in it for you if we can just sit here in silence." But I don’t. Instead, just to avoid the awkward silence, I unleash my one and only piece of taxi-based chit-chat:

"So, what time are you on until?"

I barely even understand the significance of this question, I just heard my dad ask it once. And despite the fact that I've asked it literally hundreds of times, I can't remember what a single one of them has said. Which means I have no frame of reference. What is a respectable time to be on until? 3am? 4am? 5am? I don't know. So when they reply, I just have to wing it.

"Oh, that's not too bad," I say, like I'm some kind of expert in the field of taxi driver working hours.

Then I make a big play of getting my cell out, and I do some pretend-texting for a bit.

PEOPLE WHO'D PREFER IT IF YOU SLAGGED THEM OFF TO THEIR FACE.

Because let's face it, there's no way I'm going to do that. For one, I don't dare, and for two, it'd just be awkward.

Let's say I do happen to think you're a prick. Let's say your name's Tim, and you're loud, and obnoxious, and you're one of those people who's really into fancy dress parties, and you overuse the word 'random', and you do that thing where you 'drink' the last crumbs from a bag of chips, and you're always the first one to start up a 'rubbish bag' during long-distance car journeys, and every time I have a cup of coffee you comment on how many sugars I have, and you're always going on about how you haven't got the internet at home like that somehow makes you better than me, and you roll the sleeves up on all your shirts even though it makes your head look way too big for your body. Let's say all that. Well, I can't just tell you that to your face.

Which is why I'll either: A) slag you off behind your back, the good old-fashioned way, or B) change your name and write a face book entry about it.

You know, like a real man.

OLD WOMEN WHO THINK I GIVE A **** ABOUT THEIR CRAPPY PIN NUMBER.

Hey, old women -- I officially don't give a **** about your crappy pin number. To be honest, I have enough of a struggle remembering my own, without wanting to look at yours.

So you can stop doing the whole 'hand shield' thing. Also, just so you know, those fake-presses aren't fooling anyone. In case you hadn't noticed, when you actually press a button, it makes a sound.

Jesus, what's so special about your pin number, anyway? I wouldn't mind if you were trying to stop me from seeing, say, a Stuart Little-type rambunctious CGI mouse. But you're not.

So pack it in.

THE FANTASY DINNER PARTY.

Which five historical figures -- living or dead -- would you invite to a fantasy dinner party?

Well, I'll tell you, since everyone's answer is the same anyway: Jesus, Elvis, Oscar Wilde, JFK, Einstein.

Brilliant. Five of the biggest show-offs in human history. I thought this was supposed to be my dinner party. I'm the one who's supposed to be showing off, not John F. ****ing Kennedy. Oh, "Bay of Pigs" this, "Marilyn Monroe" that. Why don't you just sit down, shut the **** up and listen to what happened to me when I was playing NCAA football online the other night?

And guess who's going to end up clearing the plates away? I'll give you a clue: it won't be Jesus.

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http://www.last.fm/user/VancouverFlanke

The face is familiar but I can't quite remember my name.