"Old man," I cried, shaking the contorted pensioner vigorously by the collar. "Old man, wake up!" Finding the man rather unresponsive, I attempted to rouse him by means of a comical jig. However, I was soon interrupted, as a stern looking attendant tooted sharply upon a policeman's whistle. She said nothing, but merely wagged her finger and indicated a sign reading, 'NO HORNPIPES.' Not to be deterred, I squatted and examined the fellow in closer detail. I was intrigued, I confess - a wizened old man, in an internet cafe, slouched over the adjacent terminal with his legs splayed and crotch unsheathed. I was so puzzled over the affair that I almost missed my order, no. 89: egg, beans, toast and egg. Still twitching imperceptibly, the man clasped a mouse in his shrivelled left hand, whilst the complementary hand, the right, was plunged deep into his loins. The upper region of his corduroy trousers appeared to have been bespattered with a strange, gelatinous fluid, glistening playfully beneath the cafe's UV mood-lighting. Unable to contain my curiosity further, I looked up at the screen. The navigation bar bore the address: http://www.cs.ucl.ac.uk/external/atanu/jb.html