It would be an odd person - a social misfit - who gets through life without spilling a bottle of wine over somebody's crotch or carpet.
I was spreading the Christmas cheer to Sydney last week, when I was myself the victim of a crotching.
It happened in a Japanese restaurant. The Kiwi cricket nut across the table was discussing the science of Chris Martin's batting, when he cover-drove a Tasmanian pinot straight into my lap.
My light tan trousers fielded the lot. Suddenly I appeared to be wearing a burgundy codpiece.
Amidst polite cursing, the waitress rushed forward with an armful of paper napkins, making Japanese commiserations.
''Napi San, she said bowing.
''Napi San.''
''What does she mean - Napi San?'' I asked another guest, who'd lived in Japan.
''Is it a term of respect? Isn't 'San' some form of honorific?''''You dumbo!'' she replied.
''She's suggesting you drop your trousers in a bucket of NapiSan. It's the household name in stain removal.''
A chap can't know everything. The wine tosser made his apologies and offered to pay for dry cleaning and another glass of red.
As we batted polite refusals to and fro, I realised that nowhere, in the rules of social etiquette, is there a formula for dealing with a crotching.
Like many of you, I'd find it helpful if there were. I am a clumsy diner, and a serial offender. And this creates awkward situations for both victim and perpetrator.
Take the case of the Queensland mud crab and the crab pliers. I was wrestling with a very large crab, which lay dead, in a black-bean sauce.
Suddenly, its giant claw snapped free of my pliers, spun through the evening air, and landed in the crotch of an elegant woman two tables away. She was, of course, dressed in white.
My grovelling apologies resulted in the following etiquette exchange: ''May I please pay for your dry cleaning?''
''No.''
''Perhaps I might buy Champagne for your table?''
''No.''
''Well, is there anything at all I can do?''
''Yes. You could shove off.''
Of course etiquette issues are less complicated with the self-inflicted crotching. My worst was caused by the famed Ed Zachary joke.
I was at seated at the head of the table at a corporate dinner for staff. With dessert done, I judged it a fitting time to wheel out Ed Zachary.
This is the perfect after-dinner joke because while it is turgid, sexist, racist, and tasteless, (that is, it ticks most of the boxes), it is not actually obscene.
A blonde finds she is not being asked out on dates, so she goes to a Chinese doctor, who conducts a thorough physical examination.
''Very sorry,'' he tells her.
''You not being asked out because you have Ed Zachary Disease. Worst case I see.''
''Dear God, I knew something was wrong,'' she sobs.
''But what's Ed Zachary Disease?''
''It's an illness where your backside look Ed Zachary like your face.''
I then made the storyteller's worst mistake. I began to giggle at my hilarious rendition of a blonde and a Chinese doctor. Lord, I was funny. Guffawing, I rocked on my chair, and toppled backwards.
As I fell, I grabbed at the nearest support, which was the tablecloth. I then set what may be the Guinness World Records mark for a self-crotching.
The sliding tablecloth delivered me about eight table settings - cutlery, plates, bread rolls, wine and custard, all topped by coffee and mints.
The staff goggled, perhaps worrying what etiquette demanded next. Then one tittered. Another giggled.
They laughed, they roared, they slapped their thighs, they rejoiced. I think the comedian has a lonely job.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
