'Great gig, eh?'' the drunk at the pub sprayed at me as we stood at the urinal on Saturday night. It wasn't a gentle, spittle kind of spray that we've all emitted when talking or shouting, but a six-pot streamer of stallion-like volume and velocity that hit the stainless steel wall we shared and bounced off, splashing my shoe, my leg and my arm.
How do you tell someone they are pissing in your pocket, literally, without causing offence? What is the etiquette here and what of the larger question of men's poor aim in particular, especially those who visit your house and leave markings like a dog?
And why do men have to stand to pee anyway? Well, they don't. And it could be up to women (and a few brave men) to make them change as they're often the chief potty trainers, not just for infants but their husbands, too.
Whoever decided that peeing with strangers should be a communal event is beyond me. Perfecting the straight-ahead stare so as not to glance at your neighbour's manhood is not something fathers ever explain to their sons; it's just something you learn by osmosis.
Oh, how I envy the chatty chaps who can converse while eliminating, a kind of walking-while-chewing-gum skill that cannot be learned and one that too often prevents the pee-shy from doing what comes naturally. It can extend a toilet stay into the uncomfortable bounds of loitering with intent - once that urge has been lost it can be difficult to get it back again.
And the simple idea of aiming straight or not dripping can be tricky in practice, which is why public urinals have that unmistakable decades-old ammonia smell that seeps from the grout on the tiled floor that no amount of toilet lollies will ever hide. Men love to fool themselves that it's longer than they think - you know, eight inches on the internet becomes five in the bedroom - which is why some bright spark has invented the underfoot grate at the lip of the urinal to overcome this age-old problem of dripping on the floor, something many women will recognise at home, especially when their partner comes in after a big night out. With the sway comes the spray.
But it's not just the drips. What about that invisible mist of airborne droplets that fills the smallest room in the house and settles on the cistern, the light switch, the walls and the floor. Do you pour your tea or coffee from the pot a metre above the cup? Of course not. And if you have a toilet in your bathroom, you might want to think about covering your toothbrush.
And so to my bold admission. I've discovered the joys of sitting down to pee: no mess, no fuss. It started one morning after a night before when I staggered home from the pub. Never again, I promised myself, as I retraced my soggy footprints down my hallway. Now I relish my new-found liberation. It works a treat when you have to get up in the middle of the night, too - just reverse park and keep snoozing. Snigger if you must, but there are no nasty surprises in the morning.
But try persuading a man to take a seat and it becomes a threat to his masculinity. It's the same logic applied by jail thugs to their prison ''bitches'' who they make sit down to pee to maintain the illusion of femininity. I can understand that - when I sit down my five o'clock shadow and my hairy legs seem to disappear.
But I urge you to try it. While you're dribbling all over your shoe, I'm sitting, relaxed, and not worrying about mopping the floor.
Mark Ellis is a columnist for the MelbourneLife section of The Age.