There comes a time in the life of every Youth (in boy Youths usually around the ages of thirteen or fourteen), when they become seized by the desire to purchase a carton of eggs of an evening, hang around in groups of two at the entrance to Lambs Lane in Falmouth, and randomly hurl said yolky missiles at innocent passersby on the other side of the road.
Accompanying your ovum-based bombardment with random random shouts of 'Twat' are expected, although if your partner is possessed by a fit of extremely high-pitched and rather girlish giggles, this may lessen the impact of your attacks a little.
And if, when the targets of your double-yokers (a highly-regarded screenwriter, his GF and his Bezzie Mate) turn round to see what on earth is going on, having heard an egg hit the ground a few feet behind them, take care not to panic and attempt to leg it round the corner at a speed unsuitable to a sharp turn, leading to both of you falling over on the pavement onto your remaining eggs and badly skinning your hands.
This will lead to hysterics on the part of the screenwriter, who is then allowed to make the observation: 'Hahahahhaha you Twats'. You are then both allowed to get to your feet, attempt to ignore the fact you have the rest of your eggs dripping down your front and run home. Calling 'Twat' over your shoulder again as you run, however, is bad form, and will be rebounded onto you instantly, pinch punch no returns.
Broadband due next Wednesday, apparently.