No truck with Ikea.

Driving to Ikea to find props for a shoot,
having forced a colleague to take me there in his car.

Me: Why are we following this bomb squad truck?
Colleague: (Silence).

Me: Martin, why are we following this bomb squad truck?
Colleague: (Silence).

Me: MARTIN, FOR FUCK'S SAKE WHY ARE WE
FOLLOWING THIS BOMB SQUAD TRUCK!
Colleague: I would rather be blown up than go to that airplane
hanger full of soulless flat pack mediocrity for the aesthetically challenged.
(He'd clearly been thinking about it, and perhaps has a point,
but THE MAN HAS A TWEETIE PIE TATTOO ON HIS CALF, for christssake!).

Me: The Swedish meatballs and chips are on me?
Colleague: OK then. You're on.