Old Ladies' Wee

You all know the feelings of deep joy I experience at the thought of my seven hour a day commute.
And you all know my feelings on mobile phone shouters and screaming kids on rush hour commuter trains.

Time for another bugbear:
Men who sit with their knees as far apart as they can possibly stretch them. You know who you are.

Listen up, guys!
The ONLY people who are allowed to sit like that are old ladies who have wee'd themselves.
That's just what you look like, opposite me on the tube, taking up three seats.
Why do you sit like that? Eh? Why?
Is it to show the whole carriage that you're hung like a cashew?
Twats!

So anyway, this morning one of the "old ladies' wee" men gets on the train at Ipswich and sits next to me.
I travel in cattle class. The seats are a regulation three inches wide (just wide enough for my cute ass).
I'm dozing happily, Bach's Goldberg Variations tinkling away on my iPod (Murray Perahia's perfect rendition; Glenn Gould's a bit histrionic for early morning listening), when I'm suddenly subjected to extreme gay leg action. This oaf has jammed his leg halfway across my seat, forcing me against the side of the train.

Now I'm not the archetypal Englishman who refuses to make a fuss.
I am the one who stalks down the carriage to say politely but firmly "This is a mobile free carriage. Please take it to another carriage or switch it off" (back in the golden age of rail travel it used to be "This is a non-smoking carriage. The cancer carriage is at the back of the train. It's the one that stinks").
I can get away with this. I am six feet tall and stocky and I have an expression that says "No Means No."

So back to this morning's gay leg rubbing session:
I don't really want to wake up, so I start tapping my foot in time to the music, hoping that would put him off …
Nope.
I can see John on the table opposite grinning at my discomfiture, so I try a different tack.
I turn to the guy and place one hand on his newspaper to get his attention.
He flicks his head round in an annoyed fashion to find me smiling at him and looking straight into his eyes.
I say (quite loudly):
"You are an attractive man, and I'm very flattered and all, but …"
And I rub my leg quite hard against his.

John explodes into gales of laughter, waking half the carriage, trying to force his fist into his mouth to stifle it.
And the guy turns bright scarlet and mumbles an apology. Had his leg shot across the carriage any faster it would have broken the sound barrier.
I spent the last hour and a half of my journey trying to avoid John's eye and enjoying loads more space than I normally would as Mister "old ladies' wee" was hanging over his armrest into the aisle to get as far away from me as possible.

It was almost worth the commute to see the look of horror on his face.
So, guys. Let that be a lesson to you. Sit properly for all our sakes, you dickless dorks.