Oxford Street this morning, taxi driver behind me sounding his horn furiously, demanding I let him pass. Stop next to him at the lights and enquire (more politely than the fat, shaven-headed, Brexit-voting, verminous cur merits) what I did wrong. Among the frantic, breathless imprecations delivered in an almost caricatural East London accent, I deciphered that I was apparently holding him up. Or, if you prefer: fackin' 'oldin' 'im up, innit?
I was doing twenty miles an hour. I know this because my GPS told me.
The worthless slime's response was that the speed limit in Oxford Street is 30 mph, and he don't care wot my fackin' GPS says innit, 'cos 20 mph is 'too slow'.
I wonder if Matt Briggs got the memo.