You know, even though there are days when I wonder what in the frig the planet has done to be populated by humans who are the equivalent of piss-soaked ear wax, there are still people out there who have the capacity to boggle me. Yes I’m talking about the nation’s flobbers.
When, pray, did the planet become a giant, spinning spittoon? Thanks to the liver-curling rise of street spitting the Earth is currently hurtling through space like a bucket of slops, waves of flob lapping furiously against its sides. It’s nothing short of miracle that we haven’t developed trench foot or that evolution hasn’t yet gifted us with webbed feet.
Flobbers. Spitters. Hawkers. Call them whatever you want but what they do is all the same. They don’t just spit. They produce sounds like emphysema victims before bringing up the contents of their lungs in the same way that rescue services wrench up Chilean miners. They then go on to splatter the pavements with substances that have only previously been seen in sputum pots or in the early, cack-handed rounds of Masterchef.
Yeah, thanks for that. It’s just what I need when I’m nipping to the shop. If I’m not actively weaving through the tiny puddles of strangers’ DNA I’m actively avoiding having said tiny puddles splatter against my legs. You know those films where cowboys are made to dance by firing bullets at their feet? It’s kinda like that, only the bullets contain tiny particle of lung and tiny IQs. In fact one day I’m going to get hit on the back of the head by someone’s errant kidney as it’s dragged up their oesophagus and out of their body.
And no, it’s not just my local old guys who’ve coal-mined their lives away who are spouting like the Trevi Fountain. Those guys I can forgive. When you’ve had thirty years of anthracite dusted down your trachea you have the right to splutter and heave like a waterboarded terrorist. It’s the young blokes who make me ever so slightly hysterical. It’s as if their spitting is entirely genetic, as if they’ve been born without the biological ability to dispose of their own bodily fluids without forcibly and publicly ejecting them at high speeds. Perhaps they should start carrying flood warnings or developing a system of gills that allows them to breathe through their own over-moist conditions.
Oh, and I say men, by the way, because I never see women doing this. Ever. In fact, could any spittle-splattered blokes reading this explain it for me? See, one theory I’ve heard bandied, like a string of drool, about is that it’s all down to football, or rather the fact that its over-plucked, cash-drenched, twenty-something players flob their way through matches in the same way that normal people never, ever wipe their arses on fifty pound notes.
Apparently street flobbage is all about copying these players and trying to inject macho behaviour and glamour into life. Really? Thing is, that even if spitting is supposed to look cool when running the length of a pitch in an FA Cup final it as sure as shit looses its allure when you do it on the way to the Spar at 11pm for a pasty and a can of Tizer.
And then I hear that it’s entirely cultural. Well, yeah, I can see that too. When I was in Nepal and Balgladesh hawking up the contents of your respiratory system was de rigeur. I was almost tempted to try it myself but for the fact that I would have probably snarled up my arteries and dribbled the contents down my own heaving frontage. Anyway, nah, I don’t buy the cultural angle for the scourge of flobbage around my town, not when I see so many white, acne-tormented, fifteen year olds doing it as they wander the streets like bow-legged baboons in search of a fag n’ a shag.
So, how’s this for a solution? The trusty bamboo stick poked right in hawkers’ throats. One quick jab as they take a breath to mine their own lungs for phlegm and small parts should do it. Yeah, they may end up drowning in the contents of their own lungs but that frigging well beats me drowning in the contents of their lungs instead. Now, that should really give them something to spit over.