The walk into Acomb for an early morning appointment at the Gale Farm Surgery is almost always a bit of an adventure for an ageing footslogger. One must be constantly alert to the hazard of maverick cyclists and uneven pavements, and you may suffer a tirade of abuse from those who now own the world, should you criticise them for unsocial behaviour.

Last week's trip was no less eventful. First there were the speeding roadsters: an odd name for cycles that are more often than not on the pavement. I managed to avoid these with my fast-diminishing ability to side-step when a collision is imminent. Next two pre-teen schoolgirls walking in front of me: at ten-pace intervals the 'Oliver Hardy' of the pair unwrapped and ate one of those little chewy fruit sweets; each time throwing the wrapper to the ground as if she meant it to stay there forever. "What are you on then - a paper-chase?" I asked, trying not to sound recriminatory, or angry, as I felt. She looked puzzled and didn't reply, but her well-fed face creased into a sheepish grin, and she popped another sweet into her mouth. I turned and walked on lest I should see her continuing to litter the pavement, which would cause me to say something that might be construed as verbal child abuse.

I suspect she is still wondering what I meant by a 'paper-chase'.

A few yards further on and four third-formers approached me straddling the pavement. The left-winger was dribbling an empty lager can and spitting every few seconds. But he hadn't quite got the hang of it - his spittle barely reached beyond the toes of his scruffy trainers. As he neared me he spat, but the large globule of spittle dropped onto his jersey front. He uttered an oath that would have made a referee blush, and wiped it off with his sleeve. As he passed I couldn't restrain myself from saying: "You really do need more practise at spitting if you want to become a professional footballer!" Pretending not to hear me, he gave a chest-heaving hawk in preparation for his next expectoration.

Perhaps I am being too intolerant of such behaviour and should, like Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, turn a blind eye to things I do not wish to see. But we should try - shouldn't we?

Exit one great theatrical knight (Gielgud) and enter another newly-knighted actor (Caine). There, Michael, I told you on January 11, Her Majesty wouldn't leave you out of her Honours List for long. Congratulations, and should we meet in The Smoke, mine's a pint of Watney's Brown.

Whenever I think of Michael Caine, I remember that he did his national service as an infantryman in the Korean War, which started 50 years ago next Sunday, and now looks as though it might, at last, be over.

Speaking of wars: as if Michael Collins, Colditz and U-571 weren't enough, the Hollywood moguls are at it again. This time it's Braveheart Mel Gibson, who is tampering with history and portraying us Brits as downright baddies in his film, Patriot; a prejudiced view of the American War of Independence, or, if you prefer, a rebellion by some of the American colonists against their sovereign George III. So, in reality, the 'patriots' were those who were loyal to Britain. Although, with the price we had been charging them for tea, it beats me why they were.

I think it's high time the Luvvy Lord Dicky made some epic films extolling Britain's past military achievements. And what would be a more appropriate theme than the Glorious Gloucesters' heroic stand at the Imjin River, Korea? He could cast a heavily made-up Sir Michael Caine as Colonel Carne and Sir Sean Connery could play the colonel's batman.

And speaking of colonels weren't Travis, Bowie and Crockett - the immortal heroes of the Alamo - all from British stock?