- I don't want to see your underpants.
Not in public; not anywhere else.
Not your Calvins (*); not your tighty-stripies. I do not want to know what kind of underpants you're wearing at all.
You're a grown man (in theory); learn to pull your fucking trousers up. Stop flashing me. Now fuck off.
- I do not want to hear your goddamned music.
Not leaking out of your fucking leaky headphones; definitely not blaring tinnily out of your stupid phone.
Most especially not in a tube carriage during commute hour – where you've failed to notice that everyone else is politely reading and chillaxing in otherwise perfect and blissful silence.
Never in the Quiet Carriage of an overground train; if you try to make me listen to your music there, I will desire very much to rip your face off and make you eat it, and may do so one of these days.
I know you can't hear your own headphones leaking; take a clue from the angry stares of all the other people in the fucking carriage. Go home and ask your mother, Hey, can you hear this music? Your mother will set you straight.
- I do not want to listen to one half of your worthless, jabbering mobile phone conversation.
Not following me down the street; not in the train carriage; most definitely not in the changing room of my health club, where there's a sign clearly posted banning mobile phone use.
If it's that fucking important – and it's not, believe me, most certainly not to the rest of us – then fuck off and go deal with it in person.
- You may not fucking litter.
Not on the street; not on the train platform; not on the trail.
I don't give a shit if there's not a bin; pack it in, pack it out, motherfucker. It's your rubbish.
Yes, a dirty smelly fag-end, when dropped in public, is litter. I have no idea why smokers think they get special dispensation from this rule; but you don't, you bastards.
The single exception here is your own house; you may drop as much litter as you like inside your home, where you have a perfect right to do so. Everywhere else, not so much.
- Hang up and drive, motherfucker.
In the UK, using a mobile while driving is illegal, for the extremely good reason that it is more dangerous than driving drunk.
Nip home and shoot yourself in the head, if you like; but you do not have the fucking right to so egregiously endanger the lives of everyone around you.
- You can bag your fucking groceries while you're scanning them at the self-checkout.
Sure, you could scan everything first, setting each item individually on the scale, and then pay, and then get a bag and one by one start bagging your groceries. If you want to cause everyone in the queue – all of whom are just trying to pick up a couple of things after work and get home and pass out – to feel a nearly irresistable compulsion to rip your stupid fucking head off and beat you to death with it.
You can EVERY BIT AS EASILY put each fucking item in a bag AS you scan it. Motherfucker.
- Keep fucking moving.
Down the train platform; up the stairs; through the turnstiles.
In any public place where people are moving, and have places to be, keep fucking moving.
If you really need to stop – say because you're a clueless tourist and completely lost or completely defeated by the challenge of getting through the ticket barrier – then kindly move yourself off to one side while you puzzle it all out.
Some of us actually live here and have places to go and shit to do. Thank you.
- Don't use your goddamned credit card to pay for a pint and small white wine at a bar where people are waiting three deep.
People are waiting. Carry a little cash like a goddamned grown-up. Pay and clear out.
PM Update: I happened to come home this very night to watch the final episode of Band of Brothers. My God, am I a whiny, ungrateful putz. 8^(
