# why don't you know striding along the high street today eager to get back to the home cube out of the uk cold and damp we'd recently been arguing with our favorite researcher so our head was down and we felt depressed some posh designer munt with an apple laptop manbag strolls up to our face demanding our attention excuse us they say ahem excuse us we barely notice them and keep walking they then say it louder a third time in case we didn't hear as we continue walking by they stop and swear under ir breath we spin turn on a dime a chinese ba gua practitioner ready to casually rising reverse hook fist this guat dennis leary style what happened to your personal assistant then ken doll upon witnessing the broody rage in our eyes of ancient mystic chi fire they bail luckily for them we was already walking away strangers don't owe aggressive poseurs jack - snapping ir fingers and demanding servants just 'serve it up' - whatever it is they want ir true anti-nature revealed whenever they don't get instantly served to ir satisfaction on the johnny spot by handy nearby information slaves you ask me something you'd better be polite because to say i don't respond well to rude arts ignorami is an understatement last time this happened two horrible old uglies in a tank sized sports utility vehicle pulled up alongside us in deepest suburbia demanding pertinent information we politely apologised saying sorry we don't know munt one sits in ir petrol guzzling tank with gold jewellery dripping off ir fat sagging neck and asks (no lie): well why don't you know why don't we know hmm yeah excellent question how about because eat our shorts we however just larval-psycho smile sending them off twenty miles in the wrong direction displaying all the personal confidence and professional reassurance of a friendly wholesome personal tourist guide with advanced local interesting knowledge and endless handy hints without even saying thank you they just both speed off ir dead eyed husbland giving us a desperate look of clawing inner sadness the poor sad sod oh to force oneself to display politeness in the pasty face of uk class based ignorance - of systematic disavowal of common decency and the simple dignity inherently owed to one's fellow humans in which to gently hand out highly specific and entirely wrong potentially dangerous answers such aggressive ungrateful public interrogations deserve too often feels darkly righteous and existentially satisfying // republic of bob