Say nothing and hope he can't see up your skirt as far as your vintage victorian garter. A bit more kohl round the eyes and he'd be a ringer for your ex.

Stare out of the window. The reflection shows a multitude of empty people avoiding your eye. There is something beautiful about this moment.

Quickly whip out your guitar and play some abrasive riffs at him until he subsides into a drunken stupor. Music saves the day!

Tell him you own an army of pigeons, and they're all high on crack. Tell him you're the high jazz priestess of a drugged-up pigeon army, so he'd better not bush your whack no more. Believe!

Snog him to death, literally, leaving poisonous blue lippy all over his face. He crumbles into dust, destroying the evidence. You are free to walk the dark streets once more, knowing he will reassemble tomorrow and follow you everywhere as your zombie bitch. Ah, well. Add him to the collection.

Whip out the hairspray you carry at all times and combine it with your friend's band-branded lighter to create a makeshift flamethrower. After he runs away, you go straight home and tell your 3,001 friends about the incident on MySpace.

Say 'dude, I am tiger. I am woman. My axe is way bigger than your miniscule knife, so screw you and everything you and your tiny dick stand for!' After you've kicked him in his male imperialist nuts you go straight to your bessie mate's garage and thrash out an awesome song on your guitar about the experience.

Cackle and caper around the poor boy, then offer to show him your mangina. See how it glitters! See how it demands fealty! As the would-be mugger pegs it, you shrug and take another swig of Apple Sourz. Its powerful green goodness excites your in your naughty parts. Booty!

Remain calm. Your boots were from Rockit and the industrial rubber platform heels are so high you shall use them as stilts and cross the canyon with ease. Or shall you spread your wings and fly with yonder pvc shawl? Ah... choices, choices.

Huddle. Cry. Your fringe falls over your face. It starts to rain. Your eyeliner drips into what is probably a smudgesque racoon look. You have a feeling you look pretty good, and wish there was someone to take a picture of you. The rain smells good.

Take advantage of the severely excellent acoustics to thrash out some power chords. There's a song here. You scrawl down the lyrics on your wrist, sling your guitar over your back and climb down the mountain like a damn goat. No biggie, dude. A mountain cannot stop you.

Ah, damn the mountaineering Swiss and their empty chocolate promises! Only your jazz pendulum can save you now, for its smooth cosmic grooves can build a bridge between not only people but canyon edges. Unfortunately you swallowed it for a dare this very morning, so you are utterly screwed. Your next few hours will be very... fibrous.

Made from the wings of tortured fairies. And suitable for one wearing only, as there's no way these little darlings will survive a wash. How the fairies screamed as you plucked their shining, iridescent wings with your slightly evil hands. Oh, how they screamed.

Very, very girly. With skulls. Lots of skulls. And you've written 'pretty on the inside' on the knickers in tippex!

Man pants, dude! Gotta be man pants! The extra opening allows for serious aeration which in turns leads to increased lyrical genius and total gender freedom. Science fact, dude! FACT RIOT!

A glittery little number made from finest venusian elephant skin. Mmmmm, venusian elephant skin. How it makes your skin tremble and ooze.

Check to see if it's opium. It is not opium. You very sensibly call the authorities immediately, and hypnotise them with your mesmering coloured contact lensed eyes into ignoring you completely as you walk through the check-in with no opium, but a bag full of stolen ancient artefacts.

Freak out and call everyone you know to ask what you should do. Realise you are going to have to smuggle those drugs just to pay for the international phone calls.

Kick him in his freakish life-hating nuts. You're straight edge, dude! You do music, not drugs!

Slap him about a bit. 'Call these drugs? These aren't drugs mate. These are cereal flakes for overly spangled mice. Find me jazz drugs, little man. Find them now.' Slap him about some more. He starts crying, and you note how the tears drip into his moustache.

Full of hard to get limited edition bootleg tracks that will impress your friend no end

Full of hard to get limited edition bootleg tracks that will impress your friend no end

Full of hard to get limited edition bootleg tracks that will impress your friend no end

Full of hard to get limited edition bootleg tracks that will impress your friend no end

Smile sunnily. You shall give her an Alice in Wonderland tea party she shall never forget, with lace doilies and little cakes and everything. And you'll invite all your friends - they're lovely, polite boys at heart, under all that PVC. Everyone loves your Aunt Nellie!

'Feel pleased, because Aunt Nellie has always said she likes your hair. Ask if you and your friends can all go and visit Aunt Nellie instead, because she has a white pet rabbit and you naturally want to see what it would look like in pink lippy and a super-kawaii little indie croteched hat.

Man, that is so rad! Aunt Nellie campaigned against nuclear power in the 70s and once drove a truck containing nuclear waste into a power plant. This visit is gonna be totally awesome!

WTF? You don't have an Aunt Nellie.