I will act against every English instinct in my body and travel around the country, bumping into people without apologising, adding inappropriate apostrophes to signs with felt pen, and, so help me, even committing the mortal sin of queue-jumping. Naturally, hordes of my countrymen (particularly those in, say, Tunbridge Wells and the like) will be outraged, and will retaliate in the only way they know how: to pen irate letters of complaint to The Times. As I continue my national rampage of impoliteness, thousands of millions of letters will be written, and eventually, every tree on the planet will be cut down, mushed up, scribbled on with expensive Parker Pens and dumped in an office in London, thus upsetting Earth's centre of gravity and tilting its angle of axis.