Please buy a hankie - we don't want to share your fluids - Susan Morrison
Why do men spit? I get it when they’re playing football or running. Mind you, I watched masses of women’s football at the last World Cup and saw nary a spit but perhaps the girls are clever and wait until the camera’s off them.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen Usain Bolt spit either, but then again, he barely had the time, did he? I imagine he’d be at the finish line before he’d even thought of it.
Running for gold at the Olympics or facing an angry goal-down Man United is one thing, waiting for a bus on Great Junction Street is another, which is where the chap in question was when he produced a remarkable amount of fluid. It landed with quite the palpable splat inches from my shoes, on the pavement.
In his defence, I should point out that he was at least social distancing, which, come to think of it, made his volley all the more remarkable. Perhaps he was in training for a record breaking effort.
I’ve let myself fly, I’ll admit. There was that time I took a swig from a Diet Coke bottle, only to feel the dead bluebottle hit my teeth en route to my throat before I took dramatic action. Oh yeah, you bet that came out explosively.
But I have never, ever taken a rattling, rasping leisurely snort in then powered out the contents of every cavity from just below my eyeballs to the top of my lungs in a great disgusting spume.
Our pavements are fairly messy anyway, ask any wheelchair or buggy user, who has to think twice before wheeling into their own homes. It’s bad enough avoiding the poo piles left behind by careless dog owners, but spit is sneakier but just as revolting, and equally disgusting.
Hankies are cheap and plentiful, so it’s not like there isn’t a handy way to dispose of fluids the rest of us don’t want to share.
And after what we’ve all been through, a little more thought and a little less spitting would be the safe thing to do.