Spare a thought for the poor man that had to endure a coach trip to Scotland from Croydon with my Grandmother sitting in the passenger seat next to him.
Now she can bore/criticise Death to death (which is how we figure she’s still going) and the poor chap was so stressed by her commentary on life’s failings that by Heathrow he’d drunk his drink and started eating the polystyrene cup.
I regularly had to travel with work colleagues by train during the “school run”. One of my colleagues ensured we had the seats around us free from noisy kids by doing a passable impression of somebody with PTSD, fixing the noisest kid with a steely glare before uttering “It’s getting a bit tricky, it’s happening again” whilst salivating slightly.
It helped he was 6ft, very well built, with a skinhead cut and looked a total nutter.