Fortunately I can both walk and run across the county of Oxfordshire, but ask me to walk down George Street while eating or drinking and it’s simply impossible.

I mention this only because last week while seated at my favourite table in O’Neills on George Street (it’s a table for two and it’s right by the window) I watched as a man ambled, skipped and ran by while eating a takeaway curry from a polystyrene carton.

It was astonishing – in the short window of opportunity my seat allowed me, I saw him cover approximately 100 yards and swallow comfortably at least four times.

For me, that is a physiological impossibility. I can do neither unless seated at a table with napkins (or help yourself serviettes at McDonald’s).

Now, sure, if you asked me to run the Oxford Half Marathon, I could do that and drink but only if in my right palm I cradled a glass of prosecco and in my left whatever was left of the original bottle and stopped every 50 yards to enjoy it.

Curious isn’t it how certain everyday necessities can escape the clutches of everyday people and equally incredible how many people can control and master those most basic of functions. I, for instance, cannot go to the toilet unless seated, relaxed and in the company of black-and-white 1920s wall tiles.

A friend of mine however, a woman, is able to exercise those necessary muscles at the drop of a hat even if under the knife in Harley Street (ankle wise, she has water retentive issues).

So to is a pal of mine able to completely control his body to the point where 48 hours can pass and that’s the only thing that will.

I think it’s fair to say I’m probably fragile yet even I can surprise myself.

I discovered back in my late teens that I could drink two pints of lager in under a minute. And still can. Without burping or feeling the need to stoop in the gutter.

I can also eat the hottest curry and neither gag nor turn crimson. On the other hand, the sight and smell alone of a modern dishwater can leave me nauseous.

But some of us – and these are yet to be identified as Homo Superios’, our next evolutionary step – can cheerfully eat spaghetti bolognese plus a week-old (and warm) raspberry trifle while shifting in a mortuary. Astonishing.

On a plane, I can never touch the fish – which is always salmon – because it reminds me of a now dead auntie of mine who sunbathed every day despite being a natural ‘ginger’. And in a high street sandwich shop, I cannot bear the aroma of fried bacon.

So I’d just like to salute the gentleman who could navigate traffic, walk and race and all the time fill his face with what looked like a greasy noodle autopsy without once gagging or turning blue. You are the future...